Page 79 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
How did he get in? The front door. I probably hadn’t locked it after Linda left. Too damned complacent. Should’ve known better.
“Hi, Allie.” He smiled an ugly smile.
“Where’s your partner?” I gasped. Despite his quiet intensity, I’d trusted the other guy much more.
“Oh, just on a break,” he said. My mind flashed to Bailey sleeping upstairs, and I prayed she kept sleeping. “Thought we’d just have a little talk, you and me.” He waved a manila folder that I hadn’t noticed before in my face. “Take a look.”
Hesitantly I accepted the folder from his hands.
A picture of Rick leaving, swinging loading doors behind him. The next one was me pushing Bailey through that same door in an overfull grocery cart, glancing behind me. The last picture was me and Andrew sitting across from each other, the broken blinds of the diner window behind us.
My mind latched onto inane details first. How had they even known about these meetings? I suppose they were following me. Where had the photographer been sitting in the diner? From that angle it looked to be a booth across the restaurant. Maybe a cell phone camera, although I’d been so wrapped up in the conversation, I probably wouldn’t have noticed full-fledged paparazzi.
But none of that mattered, because it was clear what these were—leverage. They’d wanted information on Colin and Philip, and I’d refused. Now he was back, bringing pictures that threatened to tear Colin and me apart.
“That’s right,” he said, nodding approvingly like I’d done a neat trick. “Your little sugar daddy wouldn’t be too pleased to see these, would he? Doesn’t allow you to sleep around, does he?”
It didn’t matter that Colin meant so much more to me than a sugar daddy; that actually made it worse. And it didn’t matter that I hadn’t slept with these guys; if Colin saw them, he would be extremely and rightfully pissed. I damned myself a million times for not telling him. Rather, for not telling him again, when he was sober and awake. And still I thought I should do just that. I had some hope that it wouldn’t mean the end of us. Maybe he could understand why I’d had to meet Andrew and why I’d kept it from him. It was worth a shot and definitely better than whoring for this guy.
He must have taken my silence for acquiescence. “I need information on shipping routes,” he said. “Only Philip Murphy will have that, understand? I need you to get close to him and give me the dates and locations of the drops, see?”
I handed the pictures back. “No.”
“Now, now, don’t be stupid. I could have you written up for conspiracy, drug trafficking, anything I fucking want. Hell, I could even say you propositioned me and arrest you for prostitution.”
He leaned close. There was nowhere to go. “Who would take care of your little girl, then?” he asked.
I shut my eyes against the wash of rancid breath. Oh fuck, oh fuck, that wasn’t helping. I needed to fucking think. What could I do? I wasn’t sure if he was right, but it sounded pretty convincing, and I really didn’t want to test it out. If I got arrested, Bailey would go into the system. They wouldn’t grant custody to Shelly or Colin, either, but put her in a group home. Or worse, give her to some stranger who might do God knows what with her. Fuck. Even Andrew would have been better than that, but he’d already signed away any legal claim to her.
I felt a hand on my neck, and I stopped breathing. I held it even as that hand traveled lower.
“I just want to help you,” he whispered.
No, no, this couldn’t be happening. Not again.
It didn’t seem possible, and I held on to that thought. If this wasn’t happening…fuck, let this not be happening. Both his hands touched me. There, on my breasts, and down lower, to my jeans. Just over my clothes, the thick barrier of my jeans, but it was enough.
I felt like I was underwater, hearing and feeling everything through deep waters. Maybe it was better this way.
He touched me for an eternity, or maybe just a few minutes, before he stopped. I didn’t know why he stopped. In that objective sort of detachment, my mind wondered at it. What made a bad man stop when he could go further? Was it just that this left no marks, no bruises, or fluids or anything else, and so made it easy to get away with?
He muttered into my ear, “I know about the little Murphy family dinner. Get me what I need, and you’ll be free.”
Then he was away from me, though my eyes were strangely fuzzy. The slam of the door and boot steps down the stairs signaled his retreat, if I could call it that. More like a victory dance, I thought. Tires squealed from the front of the house as he drove away.
I slid to the ground.
What a lie. I’d never be free.
I would have lost it completely, right then. It was close, ho
vering right there on the precipice. Even in my breakdown I was practical. Even broken and insane with my private grief, I loved Bailey. So I crawled across the floor to the phone on the side table.
I heard Shelly’s voice. “Hello?”
“Can you come?” I heard myself ask in a hoarse voice.
“Allie? What’s wrong? Allie! Okay, I’m coming over,” and then a click. It was good to have a friend.
