Five Ways to Fall
Page 8

Charlie Rourke.
Back to taunt me, hours later.
Vicki’s hands move to the waist of my track pants. I help her by lifting my body up so she can tug them off. “It’s been a while. I’m glad to see you’ve missed me,” she teases seductively, her hand wrapping around my length as she begins to stroke.
“I’ve been busy.” It has been a while. To be completely honest, I’ve been getting bored with these nights. There’s nothing wrong with the women. This all just feels so . . . vapid.
Either way, Vicki isn’t the one eliciting this response, but if she wants to lay claim, so be it. It’ll make us both happy. I tip my head back and close my eyes, a deep groan escaping my lips. And I recall the visual of the brown-eyed beauty in my office today. I let the memory consume me, figuring this is the best way to get Charlie Rourke out of my system before I have to watch her dance tomorrow.
I’ll have to watch her dance tomorrow.
My eyes stay closed—the image of Charlie without her dress firmly in my mind’s eye—as Vicki sheaths me, climbs onto my lap, and guides me into her.
We burn through her supply of condoms.
Chapter four
CHARLIE
“Little mouse, you’re perfect for this job,” he says with a large hand squeezing my shoulder. “No one will suspect you.”
“Are you sure?”
His warm smile speaks his promise. “Of course. We make the perfect team, you and I.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“Things are good? You’re enjoying Miami?”
I pick at a loose thread on my bedding. It’s early, it’s sunny, and I barely slept last night. I have yet to decide if I’m more worried about the act of pole-dancing topless on a stage in twelve hours or what will happen if I’m not any good at it.
I need this job. Sin City gave me a taste of what straight-out prostitution would be like and I can’t bring myself to do it. So, this is it. And working at Penny’s feels as right as it possibly could, under the circumstances.
“Yeah. Things are great.” I keep my voice airy. Non-suspicious. Right now, I have his trust. I need to keep that.
“Spending a lot of time on the beach?”
“Yup. That and the gym.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying life. Any theater groups down there for you to join?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Theater group . . . doesn’t quite live up to Tisch School of the Arts, where I was supposed to be enrolled this fall. After what happened, my stepdad made me defer for a year and shipped me off to Miami to “be safe.”
The reality is I’ll never get to go, and that burns me with disappointment. “Good, good.” There’s a long pause. “Obviously, you’ve received the package.”
“Yup.” Like clockwork. Every Monday morning at nine o’clock a small parcel arrives at the extended-stay hotel where I’m supposed to be living. Kyle—the cute twenty-six-year-old security guy who has a thing for me—holds onto it in exchange for a coffee and a fifteen-minute flirt session.
Each package has a new phone with a new number. A new phone each week means no legal wiretaps, which means no incriminating evidence.
And Sam is all about no incriminating evidence.
Of course, my explanation to Kyle doesn’t involve burner phones or why I might need them. Instead, I fabricated a lovely modern fairy tale—that my mom likes to send me care packages each week but they have to continue arriving at that address or my father, whom I’m now staying with, will go into a blind rage.
I had a hard time getting that lie out with ease. If Kyle’s attention were on my face and not my br**sts, he might have caught on. Mom can’t send me care packages because she died ten years ago, due to rare complications during childbirth, along with my unborn half-brother. It’s a sad story, really. As a high school dropout and mother by fifteen, Vegas stripper by eighteen, Jamie Miller was sure her luck had turned when she caught the eye of the much older, wealthy New York businessman Sam Arnoni.
Or, as some know him, Big Sam.
I was six when they got married—after a whirlwind three-month affair. We moved out of our two-bedroom Vegas apartment and into his sprawling Long Island house. The day we moved, my mom sat me down and told me to listen to Sam. That if I was a good little girl for him, he’d give us a good life.
I was eight when she died, leaving me alone with my stepdad. He’s all I’ve had ever since. In truth, he didn’t have to keep me. No one would have faulted him for hunting down my real ­father—who didn’t want me—and dropping me off on his doorstep. I mean, why burden yourself? But he didn’t. As long as I was an obedient little mouse, Sam told me that we’d be together.
So I was. And, in return, he gave me everything I could possibly ever want.
Knowing what I know now, I would have preferred my estranged father’s doorstep.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that. I’ll top up your account tomorrow.”
“Great.” As much as I’ve begun to detest taking money from him, the more money he sends, the faster I can save.
The sooner my plan can come to fruition.
The sooner I can run from him.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to work.” Conversations with Sam never last more than a few minutes anymore. He’s a busy guy. “Check your email, will you?”
Those are the magic words. “Okay.” I know that my voice sounds strained and so I clear my throat to shake it loose. There’s no sounding doubtful with Sam. He needs to think that I’m fully onboard with this.
“Love you, little mouse.”
I swallow a painful knot. Maybe he does . . . in his own way. “Love you too.” No real names. No reference to Dad or Sam. That’s another rule, even with burner phones. Sam’s a paranoid guy. With good reason.
Closing my eyes as I hang up, I heave a deep breath. I knew it was coming. It’s been three weeks since the last one of these calls. With icy dread creeping through my body, I reach over and flip open my laptop.
Logging in to the Gmail account—the one I share with Sam—I click on the drafts to find the unsent message. That’s how Sam gives me his directives. No transmitted emails means no intercepting them. I stare at the message, containing the name and address of a café off Ocean Drive, along with a meet-up time for me and Jimmy, a hotel name, and a picture of the buyers—“Bob” and “Eddie.”
My mouth instantly dries as the wave of nausea hits me.
“Hey, Uncle Jimmy!” I force the fake smile wider as I wrap my arms around the burly man in his mid-fifties.
“Hello, my dear. It’s so good to see you,” he chuckles softly, crushing my body against his round belly. To any innocent bystander, Uncle Jimmy could pass for a vacationing Santa Claus. Sure, his hair is more gray than white and I have a hard time picturing Santa in a yellow Hawaiian shirt and Birkenstocks at any time of year, but he’s got that twinkle in his eyes and that easy, quiet laugh that puts you at ease.
Appearances can be deceptive.
Like me. Here I am, smiling and casually accepting an iced latte at a Miami café from a man who isn’t really my uncle. My naturally straight blond hair is now chestnut brown and wavy—thanks to a wig. My eyes are olive-green and adorned with heavy brown kohl eyeliner, hidden behind dark sunglasses. A tight sports bra disguises my well-endowed chest beneath a casual T-shirt, topping off my spandex capri pants and sneakers. An effective illusion of a young woman meeting up with her loving uncle for a coffee on a Thursday morning, during errands.