Against The Odds (Anna Dawson #1) (34 page)

ENJOY A SNEAK PEEK FROM THE NEXT ANNA DAWSON’S VEGAS SERIES, AGAINST THE SPREAD

I
looked in the rearview mirror of the rented car for the third time in as many minutes. Nobody was following me. I hadn’t thought so, but I still checked. The precautions on this trip were more relaxed than normal, but there was no need for sloppiness.

I’d been doing this long enough to know that just when you let your guard down, something bad happened.

Of course, something bad had happened to put me in this position in the first place.

I checked my Mapquest directions again, and made the turn as printed. Another mile down the two-lane highway, amidst a sea of snow-covered corn fields, and then I saw the flashing neon light for Chuck’s Place.

There were a few cars in the lot, but this place was off the beaten path and far enough away from the university that my nervousness started to ease.

A little.

This was a new thing for JoJo—my less than scrupulous alter ego. No disguise, no false voice to practice, the only difference in my appearance from this morning in Las Vegas was the Central Iowa Fighting Hogs cap and sweatshirt that I’d bought at the airport.
 

 
I took off my leather jacket, placing it in the empty passenger seat. I bit off the price tag of the sweatshirt and pulled it over my head. I gathered my shoulder-length hair into a ponytail and put on the cap, threading the ponytail through the back hole. I adjusted the cap, looking in the rearview mirror. I pulled it as low as I could and still be able to see. Typical college kid meeting up with a guy in a bar.

Yeah, right.

I entered the bar, saw my guy wasn’t there yet and took a seat in a booth in the back, facing the door.

The bartender came over right away—not too much for him to do with only five other people in the bar—and I ordered a pitcher of some light beer on tap and two glasses.

No fancy imported beer, no fruity drinks that were Lorelei’s specialty.

No need to be remembered.

That was shot to hell ten minutes later when my guy walked in the door. Being a basketball star at CIU wasn’t what did it. Just being black in this all-white bar (hell, nearly all-white state) was enough for everyone to turn their heads.

To be fair, everyone had turned their heads when I walked in too. Plain old, white, average me.

I wondered if this place was a good pick, if he’d be too memorable, but the others quickly turned back to the bar and their drinks.

“JoJo,” Raymond Joseph, point guard for the Fighting Hogs, said to me. Sneered at me to be more accurate. He slid into the seat across from me. He, I noticed, had no Hogs regalia on at all.

“Raymond,” I responded, cool, even, no hint of the attitude he’d given me. I didn’t throw it in his face that he was the one who’d called me, setting up this meet.

I knew what he was going through only too well, I wasn’t going to throw salt in that wound.

He poured himself a beer, took a small sip and placed the glass on the table. “You got it?” he asked.

I nodded, looking around the bar. “You think this was a good place to meet, Raymond? Maybe somewhere more crowded? Or outdoors? Or even your apartment again?”

I’d been to Raymond’s apartment once, three weeks ago. I’d left him my number in case he wanted to do business again and hoped like hell I wouldn’t hear from him. Though I knew I would.

He’d called a few days ago.
 

“I’ve heard that people mind their business in this place,” he said. I looked at the patrons again, now giving them imaginary nefarious traits. Truth was, Raymond and I were probably the lowest of the low-lifes in the place.

Or at least I was.

“Plus,” he added. “It’s too fucking cold to meet outside.” I agreed with him there. “I’m too known on campus. And,” he looked at me with loathing in his eyes, “I don’t ever want you in my apartment again.”

“Fair enough,” I said.
 

“Besides, there won’t be a next time. This is it.”
 

I just nodded and handed him an envelope thick with hundred dollar bills under the table.

I took a gulp of my drink, pulled out a ten and left it on the table for the beer. I stood up to leave. As I passed him, I stopped and turned to him, my back to the rest of the bar. “You’ll be seven point favorites this Saturday,” I said softly.

His hands were still under the table, clutching the envelope, but I could see his shoulders clench and I figured that envelope was going to be crushed by the time he pocketed it. That was okay, crinkled money was still accepted.

“No,” he said. “That was the last time.”

“Okay, Raymond.” I started to reach out to him, but I couldn’t ease his pain. His disgust. Of himself and me.

I wanted to ask him how his sister was doing, but I didn’t. He’d see that as strong-arm tactics or even a threat. But really I was just curious—and concerned—for how Raymond’s little sister was doing in the drug rehab that his ill-gotten gains had paid for.

I kept quiet. I put my head down and left the bar.

At the airport I put the Hogs hat and sweatshirt in the trash can in the ladies room. Too bad, I liked them, but I didn’t want anything that could tie me in any way to this trip, this school or to Raymond Joseph.

I hoped…I really hoped…that was the last I’d seen of Raymond and Dubuque.

But somehow I knew I’d be back.

Against The Spread is available for
Kindle

ENJOY A SNEAK PEEK FROM THE FIRST BOOK IN ANOTHER ROMANTIC SUSPENSE SERIES BY MARA JACOBS

I
stare into the eyes of the man who killed my father.

Maybe.

I mean, maybe he’s the man who killed my father, not the staring part. Although, to be honest, I’m not really staring
into
his eyes, because I’m looking at a photo of him on a computer screen.

Okay. Let me start over.

I stare
at
the eyes of a man who
maybe
killed my father.

I only knew him for a few weeks before witnessing him murder my father, twenty-two years ago. And, I was only a five-year-old girl, not the most reliable witness.

But yeah, it’s him.

I try to calm down. This isn’t the first time I thought I saw someone from my past. I’ve quickly left grocery stores, abandoning my cart mid-aisle, when seeing the flash of a handsome man with dark hair. Only to be embarrassed as I hid in the parking lot and saw a complete stranger walk out later.

But I never thought I’d seen Uncle Chazz before. Until now.

The picture is the desktop picture of my newest acquisition, a used Mac IMAC. The man—I knew him as Uncle Chazz though, even at five, I knew he wasn’t really an uncle—stands behind the bar in a bar/restaurant. To the right of him, in front of the bar is a young couple standing with their arms around each other.
 
They’re more dressed up than the people in the background of the bar, like maybe they’ve come from somewhere else. They look to be about my age.

The woman is blonde and pretty. The man is handsome with black hair and blue eyes—a combination I used to love on a man. I quickly dismiss them.

I do a couple of quick clicks and realize that the previous owner didn’t wipe the hard drive clean. That’s not as unusual as you might think. In fact, it’s somewhat common. Even after doing this for four years, I’m still amazed at how people can sell their computers without totally obliterating every bit of personal data.

Some don’t know how, I suppose. Some don’t care. And of course, some computers are stolen, but those are mostly laptops.

The shock value of seeing people’s personal things wore off long ago. And there were some shocking things. On one of the first machines I dismantled, I found a folder of the most disgusting pornographic photos I’d ever seen.
 

I’ve been around the internet a while, and I’ve …stumbled upon...a lot of porn. Some made me laugh, some aroused me, some got no reaction, some made me sick. So when I say this was DISGUSTING…well, you know it was bad. A couple of folders down from the porn folder on this machine were all the letters the owner had sent out…to his parishioners.

Yeah, that’s right, the guy with all the hard core porn was also a minister.

After awhile I became immune to all the personal docs on the computers I refurbished. Now, I simply don’t care enough to look.

I pick up the ebay receipt that was in the box. The seller is an N. Carpenter. There’s a hand-written note that I’d tossed aside when I unpacked the computer.

I hope you like it. It served us well, but time to move on—Nick

Nick Carpenter from Tennessee sold his Mac on ebay and I bought it. He probably joined the PC nation. Or maybe got a laptop with a new job. Or upgraded to a new Mac. I get a lot of Mac sales that way. Mac users love to have the newest version of everything.

I wonder if the bartender—Uncle Chazz, now, to me—is a part of this Nick’s everyday life, or is he just a bartender that happened to be in one of his pictures? The likelihood of him being
my
Uncle Chazz slims in my mind. The bartender has the same basic features that Uncle Chazz had, but that was twenty-two years ago. He would have been in his early thirties then. The bartender looks to be younger than mid-fifties. And hopefully, Uncle Chazz is rotting in prison somewhere. And if he isn’t, then he got away with killing my father, is running free, and I really can’t imagine him—or any of his ilk—in Tennessee.

Those guys don’t leave their home turf unless they have to.

Like I did.

But the more I stare, the more my hand doesn’t move on the mouse. I can only see the desktop picture.

And Uncle Chazz.

My mind races as to how I can confirm this. Or, better yet, to eliminate the possibility that it’s him. My fingers itch to start Googling, but I know better. No search like that can be traced to this IP address. Or anywhere in the vicinity.

I know there are ways around that, proxies and other stuff, but I don’t trust them. I’ve learned not to.

A thought hits me. The bank. My safe deposit box. I look at the clock, I still have a few hours before my branch closes. Thank goodness they have Saturday hours.

How to do this? I think it through. I don’t want the contents of that box in this house. I know it’s overkill, but it’s how I feel. That life, even the remnants of that life, have no place in this house.

I’ve been through too much to make sure I had this one, small, safe haven.

I take a screen shot of the desktop and then open it up. I enlarge the pic as much as I can without totally blowing out the pixels. I crop out the blonde and her good-looking boyfriend—presumably Nick Carpenter. I hook up a printer to the IMac and print out a copy.

As if someone is watching me, I quickly fold the picture several times, image inward, and place it on my work table. I run upstairs and change out of my sweats, baggy turtleneck, Hello Kitty slippers—my basic work uniform—and into slacks, a light-weight sweater set and loafers. I have about three such outfits for the rare times I go to the bank or to some other professional establishment.

At home I just wear sweats or yoga pants. To run out for take out or to the store, I usually wear jeans. Or sometimes I just stay in the yoga pants.

Pretty inexpensive wardrobe needs. It makes for an uncluttered closet. And not a lot to have to pack on a moment’s notice.

I make the thirty-minute drive to the bank in silence, the print out of the picture sitting on the passenger seat, as if Uncle Chazz is coming for a little ride with me.

I feel a moment of panic at the bank when I pull out my two forms of ID. No reason I should, this is my safe identity. No one outside of this town knows me by this name.