22. Lily

22

Lily

The next morning , I was up early to go running.

I have an uneasy relationship with exercise. For weeks and weeks, I’ll do none, while a little voice in my head whispers, louder and louder, that I really need to get off my ass. Finally, to shut it up, I go for a run. At which point, I remember how much I hate running. But then afterwards, I get that brief, satisfied glow—for an hour or a day, I love running. I’ll do this every day, I tell myself. And then I don’t...and after a few weeks the cycle starts again.

Given the heat, running in Texas means getting up early. This has the added advantage that very few people are around to see me in running gear. My usual route is down the dried-up creek bed, towards the hills, then looping back to the bus along a disused farm track. At first, I used to carry a Taser. After a year of never running into anything more threatening than a lizard, I stopped.

There was another reason to go running that morning, though. I was due to meet with a new client and I wanted a clear head. Specifically, I wanted to clear my head of Bull.

It wasn’t easy, though. Every impact of my trail shoes on the hard-packed dirt sent a little shockwave up my legs and into my brain, and the rhythm was disconcertingly similar to the night before. The way I’d arched and ground against him. The way he’d taken my nipple into his mouth—

Shut up! I pounded along the creek, trying to go faster, hoping that that would help.

You like that?

His hands on my breasts. That thick thumb pushing between my lips.

My legs went faster still, my muscles burning.

You’re a bad girl when you get going—

Shut up!

—aren’t you, Lily?

It was impossible. Dangerous. No matter how big and strong he was, if he got involved with me there was a good chance he’d wind up dead.

It wasn’t just the danger I lived with, but the danger a relationship would bring. Avoiding having a life is exactly how I stayed off the radar. I couldn’t even have a Facebook page. How the hell could I have a boyfriend?

I was panting hard, sweat trickling down the back of my sports top. I’d tied my hair back into a tight ponytail in some sort of unconscious effort to take control and be ruthless and efficient. But beneath my jogging shorts, the flex and push of my hips was rhythmically rubbing things, making me painfully aware of just how out of control I was.

Damn him. Damn him, with his muscles and that smile and —

Goddamnit!

I reached the end of the creek and started back along the farm track. Sweat was trickling down my forehead and my upper chest gleamed with it. My boobs—difficult to control even with a sports bra—ached and heaved. That was all normal. The fact that my nipples were hard wasn’t. I could feel them pressing into the soft fabric, yearning for the rougher touch of his fingers. God, his hands were so big. If they slid underneath me and gripped my ass, squeezing my cheeks, I’d feel like I was just completely in his hands; he’d just scoop me up off the bed, opening me up, and—

Shut up!

I staggered to a stop and bent over, huffing for breath. It was impossible. I couldn’t get him out of my head—the more I tried, the more he was there, strong and arrogant and larger than life. And it wasn’t just the sex. There was something even more disturbing, underneath that. The memory of that horse ride and the way he’d looked at me a few times, especially as the sun had gone down. A different kind of intimacy, one that maybe I needed even more.

That was the real reason I couldn’t be with him. Even if I could somehow enjoy a one-time roll in the hay and then walk away—and I wasn’t sure I could—it already felt like more than that. Which was nuts, because if there was one thing I’d learned from seeing him in Lucky Pete’s and reading his Facebook page, it was that Bull didn’t fall for anyone—he was a rutting, pumping sex machine, and that was it. Why on earth would I think he might develop feelings for me? Because I liked him in that way myself? A thousand slimmer, prettier girls probably thought the same thing. I’ll be the one he falls for.

I snorted in contempt at myself. And then gave a hard little laugh. Looking down at myself, all sweat and curves, the idea was ridiculous.

I forced myself forward, jogging the rest of the way back to the bus. I’d spectacularly failed to get Bull out of my head, but at least I’d decided that I’d done the right thing, the night before. Now I had to focus on the meeting. In my line of work, acting like a lovesick fool is a good way to get killed.

The meet was at Momma B’s, a diner not far from the arena. It was actually a pretty nice place, all done out in shades of blue and white that made it feel pleasantly cool, and with a lot of polished wood. The morning rush of workers was just dying down and the families on holiday, stopping in for a relaxed breakfast, were just starting to arrive. The menu was good, too. I’d been living in Gold Lake for two years— why have I never been in here, before?

Oh yeah. Because I have no one to have breakfast with.

I was nervous, so I arrived even earlier than usual. That left me with a full half hour to kill, so I made the most of it and had juice and coffee and waffles with strawberries and maple syrup.

When the guy and his two heavies strolled in, I was just pushing my sticky plate aside and finishing up my coffee. I sized them up as they approached. Blond hair, expensively styled. Nice suit. His two heavies were typical hired muscle: no neck and carefully blank expressions .

What interested me about the guy was that he wasn’t from one of the usual customer bases—not Russian or American or Mexican or even Colombian. He’d flown in from Europe, although he was vague as to exactly where and insisted I call him simply Carl.

I’d guessed at Austrian or German. From his accent, as he said my name and sat down, I was spot-on. He smiled and told me how pleased he was to finally meet me. He was charming, in a way—even sort of good looking, but...

Something was off. However much he smiled, I still felt my stomach knotting. It was like a spider asking you to stroke it. Then the two heavies slid into the booth as well—one beside Carl and one beside me. Now I couldn’t easily get out, if I needed to run. Shit.

“So,” Carl said enthusiastically. “To business.” He leaned in. “I need European passports. I’m told you can do those.”

I nodded. “Which countries?”

“Germany, France, Switzerland, Austria, about thirteen United Kingdom—“

“Thirteen UK?” My eyes bulged. “Wait, how many are we talking about in total?!”

“Eighty-seven.”

I felt my jaw drop. I’d been expecting five or ten.

“Is that a problem?” he asked, losing his smile.

I swallowed. “Not at all.” It would mean a lot of late nights, but it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. And it would take my mind off a certain cowboy.

“Good.” His smile returned. It was in contrast to the two heavies, neither of whom had smiled at all. He popped the catches on his briefcase and took out a ring binder. “Here are the details,” he said, tossing it to me .

Making sure that no one at the other tables could see, I cracked it open and looked at the first page. There was a passport-sized photo, ten neat fingerprints on a card, a name, date of birth, eye and hair color...everything I’d need. The only unusual thing was that the photo was of a woman—a pretty young thing with glossy black hair. Her date of birth was only three days after mine. Normally, in the criminal world, it’s all men. Maybe she was someone’s girlfriend.

A lot of the people I work with aren’t good at organization but this was perfect—it would make my job a breeze. “Fine,” I said. “Depending on the exact mix of countries, figure three a day, so twenty-nine days. Let’s meet one month from now.”

Carl raised an eyebrow. “You work weekends? When do you have fun?”

I gave him a polite smile and started to shove the file into my shoulder bag, but the corner caught on the fabric. I had to pull it out and shove it in again, which was when the thing flopped open. I saw another page, about halfway through. Also with a woman’s photo. I blinked and, out of some deeply-ingrained paranoia, turned the page.

Another woman.

They were all women. Every single one. All my age...or younger. Eighty-seven women, all needing passports so that they could be sent— shipped— all over Europe.

I tossed the file back to Carl. My fingers tingled, as if I’d been tainted just by touching it. “No.”

He leaned forward. “Is there a problem?”

“I’ve always been very clear about what I will and won’t do,” I said. I glanced around. All around us, families were chowing down on eggs and hash browns, while the moms checked their Facebook feeds and the dads checked out the waitresses. I lowered my voice until he almost had to read my lips. “And I don’t do trafficked women.”

Carl shook his head. “Mine is a very old, established business. Rich clients. Very discreet. There won’t be any problems. Nothing to blow back on you.”

I frowned. “I said no.”

He opened his briefcase again and took out a thick envelope, put it on top of the ring binder and shoved both across the table towards me. “Half now, as agreed,” he said. “Half on delivery.” He smiled at me, as if to show how reasonable he was being.

I charge three thousand dollars for a European passport and all the back-end hacking that goes with getting the false name onto the right databases. There was a little over a hundred and thirty thousand dollars in that envelope. All I had to do was reach out and take it.

I pushed the ring binder and envelope back across the table.

Carl stared at me coldly. And pushed it back to me.

I put my hand out to push it back again but, this time, the heavy next to me put his big paw on top of it, weighing it down. He scowled at me.

“Take the money,” said Carl sadly.

“Get that thing the fuck away from me,” I said in a low, dangerous voice. This had gone south, badly, and it was time to get out. I always keep my purse on my knee during meets. Now I slid my hand inside it, feeling for the glossy touch of mother-of-pearl under my fingers. I wouldn’t actually pull the gun out—not yet. I’d just let him know it was pointing at him under the table and—

Where was my gun?

I’d packed it. Of course I’d packed it. I always packed it. I’d have to be really fucking dumb to not pack my gun. I’d gone for my run and showered and dried off, dressed and— And—

I could almost see the gun, sitting neatly in its holster under my bed, miles away.

Carl shook his head, tired of waiting. He scooped up the ring binder and envelope and dropped them into his briefcase. “Let’s all go for a drive,” he said to his heavies.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit!