Lauren Blakely - After This Night

“Tell me,” he said, gripping her hips harder as his eyes widened. He stopped dancing, grasped her hand, and guided her outside of the reception hall.

Once outside, she shivered. The evening had settled in, bringing with it the California chill from the bay. He took off his suit jacket, and slipped it over her shoulders. The gesture emboldened her.

“You remember that guy who came up to me outside my apartment?” Her stomach nosedived as she began. “When I lied about who you were?”

“Yes. Of course.”

She inhaled sharply, letting the cool air fill her chest, hoping it would settle her flip-flopping insides. “I lied because I was scared. Because I was trying to protect you. Which I know sounds silly, because you’re this big, strong man,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. “But I don’t want him or anyone going after you because I care about you.”

“Why would he or anyone go after me?”

This was the hardest part. When she told him why. The words threatened to lodge in her chest, refusing to come out, but she shucked off the red-hot shame. “My ex? The one who’s gone—I told you about him that night in your bath?”

His features tightened, and his brow furrowed. “Yeah. Where is he?”

“I still don’t know. The IRS is looking for him, and I haven’t a clue. He left the country, and he left with $100,000 stolen from the mob. He claimed the money was a loan for me to expand my bar, so when he took off, the mob boss came to collect. With me.”

Clay’s mouth hung open.

She never thought this polished, confident man would be speechless, but that’s what she’d done to him because he’d gone mute from the shock. Seconds ticked by, then a full minute, it seemed. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw as if he were thinking, trying to process what she’d said.

“I know it’s probably not something you hear too often. Hi, sweetie. I’m wanted by the mob.”

“No,” he said, managing a brief, dry laugh. “Don’t hear that very often at all.”

“So when Stevie came by he needed me to go to a game.”

“Game?”

“I play poker for this guy, Charlie. Stevie is his enforcer. I’m Charlie’s ringer. He makes me play in rigged poker games to win back the money Dillon stole.”

Clay stepped away, looking unsteady on his feet and ashen. “Are you serious?”

She nodded. “Completely. I’m really amazingly good at poker. Always have been. And I win most of the time. And now I hate playing because I’m forced to play for him to pay off a debt that isn’t even mine.”

“That’s a fucking mess, Julia,” he said, his voice a raw scrape. And it scared her.

He was going to run now, wasn’t he? Nobody wanted this kind of mess in their lives. He probably didn’t believe her, either. Probably thought she was lying to him like Sabrina had done, and figured she was going to ask him for money too. Crap. She had to fix this.

She moved closer. “Did I scare you off?”

“No. I’m just . . . I just . . . I didn’t think that was the issue.”

“What did you think it was?”

“I honestly don’t know. But that’s some crazy stuff, Julia,” he said, and she detected a note of skepticism.

She cycled through things to do or say to prove herself. “I want you to trust me and I know you have every reason not to trust me. You also have to know I’m not asking you for money. I’ve never asked anyone for money. If I were going to I would ask my sister, but I have kept her and everyone I love out of this because it’s my problem. I want you to believe me. Do you believe me?”

His lips parted and he paused briefly then said yes. But she needed him to believe it with every ounce of his being.

“No. I want you to believe me with the same certainty that you want to fuck me,” she said, pushing hard on his chest now. Flames of anger licked her chest. She’d opened her deepest, darkest secret and she didn’t want a shred of doubt.

He held up his hands as if he were backing off from her. “Fine. I believe you.”

“The expression in your eyes tells me otherwise. You asked me to open up to you. I’m baring my fucking heart to you. Charlie gave me a deadline, and he’s threatening my bar and my co-worker, and he showed up this morning at my hair salon, and he’s circling me,” she said, holding her hands out wide. She flashed onto something he’d told her once about a friend of his. “I am mad and I am terrified. I’m not asking you for money. I’m asking you to believe me, and you need to believe me completely. So call your friend.”

He crinkled his nose as if her words didn’t compute. “My friend?”

“The lawyer who runs people down for you? You said he tracked down intel on people you weren’t sure about.”

“Yeah, my friend Cam. He can get the goods on anyone.”

Julia dug into her small satin clutch purse and grabbed her phone. She thrust it at him. “Call him. The guy is Charlie Stravinski, he owns Mr. Pong’s restaurant in China Town,” she said, rattling off the address. “He also owns Charlie’s Limos. I’m sure your friend can verify who he is. That’s the guy who owns me.”

“Julia,” he said softly, his voice strained, and that sound was terribly familiar. It felt lethal. It was the sound of his voice when he ran. It was the way he’d spoken to her on the street. She tensed all over, and she wished she could unwind the last fifteen minutes of honesty, zip them up and toss them in a body bag into the ocean. She should have continued leaving him in the blissfully ignorant state that made him jet out to San Francisco to see her. He’d been falling for her; she could see it, feel it, sense it. Now she’d shattered what they could have had. Whoever said honesty was the best policy didn’t have the mob on her tail.

He breathed out hard, pressed his lips together, and seemed to be debating. “Julia,” he said again, his expression softer. “You don’t have to prove it. I came out here because I trust you, and if we’re going to be together the way we want, the way I want, the way you want, I’m not going to ask you to prove who some guy is.”

But she needed him to know she wasn’t making up Charlie. “It’s important to me that you know this for certain and not just because I said so. I need to have proven myself to you. Call your friend, give him the info, and you’ll know I’m not lying. I have a price tag on my head.”

It was almost too crazy to believe, but the truth was messy. Lies were ironclad. They added up too neatly. Lies were padded so thick they became airtight and couldn’t breathe. The truth was frayed, like the tattered end of a rope. The truth was full of holes that were evidence of its veracity. Still, he could tell proof was vitally important to her, so he pulled his own phone from his pocket and dialed Cam.

“Hey man, can you run a quick check on someone for me?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely for you,” his friend said in his gregarious voice.

Clay gave him the basic details. “Just let me know what kind of business he’s running. Doable?”

“This is easy. I’m in front of my laptop right now, and will run a few quick searches. That is, if my lady friend doesn’t come back and try to distract me.”

Clay smiled briefly. “Have fun with Tess. But take care of me too.”

“You bastard, you owe me so much. I love it when you owe me. I love running down shit for you because it gives me one more thing to add to my totals. There’s only one other person I do this for free for,” Cam said, his voice stretching across the country like a big old Texas-style hug.

“Who’s that?”

“I’m not saying but she’s a lot prettier than you.”

“I should hope so.”

He hung up, and returned to Julia. She looked different than she had before. She’d always been tough, strong, a woman of the world. Now she looked empty, as if she’d shed all her emotions and replaced them with cool blankness. He reached for her, gripping her arms gently but firmly as he kept his eyes fixed on her. “That story is crazy, and I hate what he did to you and I hate that anyone wants to hurt you, and here’s the thing—I won’t let them now. You know that, right? You’re with me, and that means I’m here to help you. You tried to protect me and that was the most adorable, sweetest, sexiest thing anyone has ever done, but you don’t have to because that’s my job. Got that?”

She said nothing, just stared hard at him. She was shutting down, and he was having none of that. Not after she’d finally opened up. “I’m not running,” he said firmly, refusing to let her look away. “I’m here for you. I’m here with you, and I want to help you. That’s what I do. That’s what I want to do for you.”

“Why?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Why?” he said, his voice louder. He was going to have to make this abundantly clear. “Because I flew here to see you. Because you are under my skin. Because this fucking bastard left you with a shit ton of problems and if I ever find him I will make sure he pays. And because you have the mafia after you.”

“That doesn’t scare you? Make you want to run?” She shot him a challenging stare, almost as if she were daring him to walk away.

“No,” he said crisply.

There wasn’t a chance in hell that was happening. He straightened his spine, planted his feet wide, making it clear in every way that he was staying. “It makes me want to stay.”

“Why do you want to help me?”

He shook his head in frustration, but deep down he understood why she was behaving like this. She’d admitted something terribly private, and self-preservation was familiar ground for her.

“May I remind you of your toast in there?” He tipped his chin to the reception. Through the glass, the guests were still spinning on the dance floor, the twinkling lights illuminating their steps. Waiters moved nimbly about, passing out appetizers. “Common interests and passion? Ring a bell?” he said, waiting for her to acknowledge what she’d said a mere hour ago. She nodded once. “I feel the same.”