Inside (Bulletproof 1)
Page 25If he could adapt to that environment, he could adapt to anything, couldn’t he? One would think so. But all the coping skills he’d developed wouldn’t transfer to this latest challenge. Getting out had filled him with too much hope. Hope that he’d be able to break the grip The Crew had on him. Hope that he could forget the past decade and a half and live a normal life. Hope that his sister would be safe, that she could raise her children in peace.
And that wasn’t all he wanted. Not since meeting Peyton Adams. She’d entered his mind so many times since she’d dropped him off, it made him angry with himself and with her. All through dinner, such as it was, he’d been thinking about how soft her skin had looked—especially when she had her hair slicked back and was wearing that no-nonsense business suit—how tempting he found the curves beneath her tight-fitting sweater and those faded blue jeans, and how much he admired her basic decency. She wasn’t like the other wardens and C.O.s he’d met. Some of them were good people, too. Eddie Glover had made a world of difference for him at Florence. But Peyton had a certain sensibility no one else possessed….
He craved more—of her time, her attention, her—but he knew that wouldn’t be wise for either of them.
How had he let her get under his skin so quickly?
Maybe that wasn’t too odd. Even Wallace found her attractive. He’d mentioned how pretty she was before they’d met her at the library, had joked about wanting to get in her pants. He’d obviously thought talking so crudely was the best way to relate to an ex-con, but Virgil hadn’t been impressed.
The phone rang.
Hoping it was his sister, or Wallace calling with an update, he grabbed the handset. “Hello?”
“Is Hal Geribaldi there?”
“Who?”
Virgil racked his brain, trying to figure out if he recognized the voice. He didn’t, but that brought little relief. “How did you get this number?”
“Isn’t this the Redwood Inn? Room fourteen?”
“No.”
“Sorry, man.”
Virgil disconnected, then sat staring at the phone. Was it really a wrong number? Or had someone used it to confirm that he was in the room?
He pictured the caller standing next to Pointblank Thompson, a man who’d gotten his nickname by shooting a cop at close range, or Pretty Boy McCready, who’d gotten the name from his good looks. Imagined this stranger, whoever he was, holding the phone so they could hear his voice. Imagined Pretty Boy, a former cell mate, nodding once to signify that they’d found him. And wondered if someone from The Crew would be knocking on his door.
Were they coming for him? Already?
It was possible. He’d been out five days and hadn’t made contact. They had to assume trouble, had to have started searching; they’d grown nervous way back when his exoneration was only a possibility. That was when they’d begun tailing Laurel, just in case he decided to break away. They were afraid a “lifeboat,” as they called an exoneration, might lure him into a legal life. They were also afraid of what he knew and what he’d tell.
He’d soon be providing intel on the Hells Fury, but he didn’t view that in the same light. He hadn’t made them any promises. Perhaps the distinction was a bit blurry, but as crazy as his rationale sometimes sounded, even to him, this was the only way he could save Laurel, get out of The Crew and be able to live with himself when it was all over.
If The Crew hurt Laurel, however, he’d forget about the delicate balance he was trying to achieve. Redemption wouldn’t matter. Starting over wouldn’t matter. His future wouldn’t matter. He’d scrap all his good intentions and make their destruction his final mission.
His life had been a tug-of-war from the beginning, hadn’t it? Thanks to his mother and uncle. Maybe he was never meant to escape what they’d done. Maybe, in the end, he’d become what other people had, for all these years, believed him to be. And maybe his actions would lead him straight back to prison, if he didn’t get killed along the way. But at least if he went to prison a second time, he’d deserve to be locked up.
Climbing off the bed, he went to his duffel bag, pulled a slip of paper from the zippered pouch on one side and studied the phone number scrawled across it. Pretty Boy’s number since he’d gotten out of prison. Virgil was tempted to call him, to tell him that as long as Laurel was okay he wouldn’t nark on anyone. He could get Pretty Boy to buy it. But even if Pretty Boy managed to convince Horse and Shady, the man who was really calling the shots, the gang couldn’t allow him to disrespect them by walking off unscathed.
Just in case they were scrambling and hadn’t yet decided how to react to his sudden disappearance, Virgil dared not call. Doing so might make them move on Laurel more quickly than they otherwise would. He wanted to give Wallace as much time as possible to get her to a safe place.
With a sigh, he tossed the number on the desk and stepped over to the window, where he held the drapes so he could peer out.
Fog made it difficult to see the parking lot, but a car idled in front of the lobby, its headlights boring holes in the mist. That car seemed suspect. But everything seemed suspect. He’d been living without trust for too long, had lost the ability to feel safe.
The phone rang again. Still leery, he stood to one side of the window as he answered. “’Lo?”
It was Peyton. Letting go of his breath, he sank onto the bed. “Yes?”
“You okay?”
He pictured that car, wondered if he had any reason to worry. “Fine, why?”
“I thought you’d be sleeping.”
“You were trying to wake me up?”
“Since we’ve become friends, I knew you wouldn’t care.”
She was teasing, and now that she was at a safe distance, he welcomed the distraction. It relieved the tension inside him and gave him a chance to reassure himself that The Crew wasn’t outside waiting. “Am I to assume you regret your earlier decision?” he asked.