“Sounds like a fourteen-year-old’s birthday dream come true,” I blurt out, followed by a “sorry.” Those are the kinds of thoughts I’m supposed to keep inside my head.
Cain snorts. “It was . . . until she dropped me off at home and I saw the tears running down her cheeks. I couldn’t figure it out. She seemed so into it. When I got home, the first thing my mom asked was, ‘Was she any good?’” I hear Cain’s teeth grind together. “I had no clue what my mom was involved in at that time. A year later, a few buddies and me broke into the house where my mom ran her bookkeeping business—my grandmother’s old house. I hadn’t been in it in years. It was the middle of the night, we were drunk, and we just wanted a place to hang. Turns out that the bookkeeping business was more of a hobby, and a front for what was really going on inside that house. I found Kara in a room there with some old married guy. After I chased him out, she admitted that my mother had set everything up, that night we were together. She wanted to make sure Kara could go through with paid sex.
“That’s how I lost my virginity. At fourteen, to a prostitute, arranged for me by my mother.” Cain’s head falls back against the couch. “Kara ended up ODing a few years later,” he offers vacantly.
“Oh my God, Cain.” My chest tightens. So many of Cain’s childhood memories seems to end with sex, drugs, death, or a devastating combination.
Turning, I move to prop myself up on my elbow, intent on distracting him from his dark thoughts. But he quickly shifts out from beneath me, muttering, “I’d better go check on things out there.” Without another look back, he leaves.
A prickly lump settles in my throat. Is this about his birthday? Or is Cain upset with me for something? I can’t bear that thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have prodded. I never prod. I shouldn’t start now, slurring and dizzy from those stupid drinks. When he comes back, I’ll shut up, wrap my arms around him, and hold him tight.
Until then, I’ll just rest my eyes for a while. It feels so good to close my . . .
Chapter thirty-one
CAIN
The place is a f**king disaster—empty glasses and bottles everywhere. Nate is sitting on the stage with his back against the dancer pole, hunched over. Focusing in on him a little more closely, I see that his eyes are closed.
Giggles from the V.I.P. room tell me that Mercy and others—likely Ben included—are still there, defiling the space. Aside from them, the place is empty. I hit the lights and grab some more water, then check the doors to ensure they’re locked and security is set.
Charlie’s snoring quietly when I return. I pull a blanket over her body and spend a long moment watching the woman I’ve come to care so deeply about.
And then I pull her file from my cabinet. I check the birth date to confirm that it’s September 23. I’ve never been to Indianapolis, but I have a hard time believing they have enough snow to toboggan on in September. That’s my first question. Maybe there’s an explanation, though. Maybe they celebrated a few months late. Maybe they went to the North Pole for her birthday.
More important, though . . . who the f**k is Sam?
I know she’s awake before she makes a sound or moves a muscle. I sense it in her body, the way it goes rigid against mine. I managed to slide in beneath her comatose frame last night and grab a few hours of sleep with her in my arms. “Do you know what time it is?” she asks in a croaky voice and I feel her swallow several times.
Reaching back to grab my phone that I placed on the side table last night, I flip it open to check. “Eleven.”
She lets out a cute little groan. “God, I drank a lot last night. I’ve never drunk that much before.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I may still be drunk.”
I chuckle and then wince, the first sign of my own hangover making its appearance. I feel her swallow again and I reach back for a bottle of water. “Here, drink this.”
She moans appreciatively, shifting into my groin. “Seriously, Cain?” She shakes her head.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s the morning and you’re lying on me.”
“Hmm . . .” I watch as she eases herself up into a sitting position. I haven’t forgotten what she said last night. I was drunk, but I wasn’t that drunk. I know I told her that I don’t care about her past. And I don’t. But we’ve been together for weeks now. I’d like to know who the f**k Sam is and why she’s referring to him as her father, when her father’s name is George Rourke.
Or is it?
Standing, she wobbles a bit, using the wall for support as she heads toward the bathroom. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk,” she announces, pawing at the light inside before closing the door.
If I weren’t me, I might not worry so much about this. But I am me and she still hasn’t divulged a damn thing about herself, even after I laid my history out for her to judge. I lay awake beneath her for hours, trying to rationalize it, to tell myself that it doesn’t matter to me. Still, I feel a sense of bitterness seeping in. A touch of betrayal that this woman doesn’t trust me, or my word that I would never hold her past against her.
At the same time that the toilet flush sounds inside, her phone begins ringing. Normally, I wouldn’t think to go through her things. Now, though . . . I don’t hesitate. I unzip her purse. I pull her phone out.
And I answer it.
“Hello?”
There’s a second or two of dead air and then, “Who is this?”
“This is Cain. You looking for Charlie?”
Another pause. “Yes. How do you know her?”
I don’t like the calm, even tone of his voice. It sounds manipulative. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” The number is marked “unknown,” so that doesn’t help me.
A soft, condescending chuckle answers me. “That’s because I didn’t give a name.”
This must be the same guy that Ginger spoke to. I don’t have patience for this. “Well, then I guess you can go f**k yourself.”
A sharp hiss fills my ear. “You don’t sound like the kind of man I want my daughter with.”
“Pardon me?” I did not expect that. And Charlie’s father is in Pendleton, so it can’t be true. “Who is this?” Wait . . . “Is this Sam?”
The line goes dead.
The phone is still in my hand when Charlie emerges with a freshly washed face. She freezes, her now violet eyes skittering from the phone in my hand, to her opened purse, to what I assume is a stony expression on my face.
“What are you doing?” She’s trying to sound casual about it, but it’s impossible. I can almost see the wave of shock as it ripples through her.
“Who’s Sam?” I can’t keep the bite from my tone.
She blanches, her mouth opening to tremble for a second. “You talked to Sam?” Her jaw clamps shut instantly as if she didn’t mean to say that out loud. There’s undeniable fear in her voice and my anger wavers as worry courses in.
So Sam does exist. And she’s afraid of him. “I don’t know, Charlie. The man I just talked to said he was your father but he wouldn’t give his name. So is your father Sam or George?” I can tell by her screwed-up face that she’s trying to process the logic behind my words. I sigh. “You were talking about tobogganing with your dad last night. You called him ‘Sam’ but your dad’s name is George. So . . .”