G-Men: The Series (12 page)

Slate and I slid into a booth in the corner. Our server took our drink orders. I ordered a double tequila shooter, and I noticed Slate’s raised brow. He ordered bourbon on the rocks.

“So,” I said, “what do you want to talk about?”

“Diamond,” he started, and then quickly got a look of irritation on his face. “It would help if I knew your real name. Do you mind?”

“Yes, I do. I’ll give you my first name only. It’s Sunny,” I lied.

I mean, seriously? Did I truly believe his given name was Slate?

“Thank you,” he responded, piquing my curiosity at his manners. “That helps. Sunny, I know I don’t know you very well. Hell, you don’t know me, either. You have no reason to trust or to even believe me, but you remind me of someone, a person that I used to know and care about. Anyway, all I’m trying to say is that I don’t think it’s safe for you to continue dancing at Jewels. As a matter of fact, I think you need to quit.”

Our server brought our drinks, and I downed mine, ordering another. God, it tasted so good.

“Slate, forgive me if I’ve got this stereotypical thing going here, but for the love of Jesus, I can’t believe a member of the Outlaws has taken it upon himself to worry about a pole dancer at a somewhat seedy gentleman’s club.”

“First of all, I’m not a patched member of OMC yet. I’m what they call a ‘prospect.’ I was patched into a club in Virginia called the Mongols before coming to Indy. The Outlaws recruited both my buddy Taz and me. We’ve been here about six months. We’re checking it out and deciding if the OMC is what we want.”

“Excuse me for being ignorant on all of the biker lingo and politics, but exactly what’s the difference between being a Mongol and an Outlaw?”

I saw the smile cross his face. It was pure sexy. He took my hands in his large ones, his thumbs caressing my fingertips gently.

“Hmm, great question. Let me see if I can put this into chick terms. I guess it’s kind of like shoes. I’ve noticed you have a thing for shoes. So, let’s say that OMC is Prada and Mongol is Stride Rite.”

I totally got it. He knew that. I could tell by his sexy smile.

I had a couple of more drinks and was feeling totally buzzed when it finally dawned on me that we needed to finish the conversation he’d started about me working at Jewels.

“Slate,” I halfway slurred, “you’ve explained all of this shit about the Mongrels and now the Outlaws… . . .”

“Mongols,”
he corrected me, with slight agitation.

“Whatever,” I said, waving my hand dismissively, “but what you haven’t explained is why you think it’s dangerous for
me
to work there. I don’t get involved with those bikers. So what is it?”

“I just don’t think you belong there, Sunny. I’d prefer it if you found another job, something that doesn’t involve that type of clientele.”

“You mean clientele such as yourself?” I asked, my index finger waggling at him.

“Yeah, exactly. I’m no good for you, and the rest of those assholes sure as hell aren’t good enough for you. Take this as a friendly warning to someone I don’t want to see hurt. Humor me, please?”

I took the final swig of my latest drink, and then looked him straight in the eye, sort of. I was starting to weave a bit.

“You’re awfully bossy, aren’t you?” I asked with a giggle. I then leaned over closer, my voice a husky whisper. “What’s in it for me, Slate?”

He could tell that I was shit-faced. His demeanor changed abruptly to one of no-nonsense. His hand reached across the table, gripping my upper arm tightly.

“I’m serious, Sunny. You need to go back to whatever trailer park you came from. Trust me; you’re out of your league here.”

His voice was calm, yet highly authoritative. I kind of liked that.

For whatever reason, I started giggling. He thought I was trailer trash. How ludicrous was that? A biker was looking down his nose at me. I couldn’t stop, even when I looked over and saw his extremely somber expression.

“You’re fucked up. We’re outta here. Come on, I’m taking you home.”

He left two twenty-dollar bills on the table, and pulled me out of my seat across from him in the booth. He helped me with my jacket and led me out to the parking lot where his pick-up truck was parked. Just before we got to his truck, I felt the ground underneath of me start to spin.

Oh God - I’m going to heave…

The next thing I knew, I was leaning over in the parking lot and tossing my cookies all over the pavement.

I vaguely remember Slate helping me into his truck and me accusing him of slipping me a roofie. I vaguely remember him chuckling and saying, “I don’t think so, babe.”

He took me to a motel and got a room.

This was it. I was now going to know what it felt like to be raped by a probationary member of the OMC, as opposed to being raped by my husband. Hell, my money said Slate would be gentler.

The last thing I remembered was Slate peeling my clothes off until I was down to my thong underwear and push-up bra. He pulled the bedspread back and got me under the covers, checking first to see if I thought I was going to heave again. I gave him the all clear signal and promptly passed out, seeing him sitting on one of the chairs next to the bed, channel surfing with the remote.

God, he’s gorgeous.

^{chapter 13}

I awoke the following morning with a headache and cotton mouth in a strange room. It took me a couple of minutes to think back and fast forward to where I was.

I sat up in bed abruptly, looking around the room. I was alone. The door to the bathroom was open, so I presumed Slate wasn’t in there. I didn’t see his jacket strewn anywhere, just my clothes.

My cheeks felt flushed when I recalled him undressing me before I passed out beneath the sheets of this hotel room bed. The clock radio on the bedside table said it was 8:43 a.m.

I got up and out of the bed, wondering why in the hell he’d simply left me here to fend for myself. I wasn’t even sure where the hell I was, as far as where this motel was located. I saw a piece of paper and some cash on top of my jacket, which was on one of the chairs. It was a note from Slate.

Sunny,

Call yourself a cab when you get up. I needed to leave. Here’s some cash for the cab. Remember what I said. Call Janine and let her know you won’t be back. It’s not safe for you to be there. Please listen to what I’m saying to you, Diamond Girl. I care.

-Slate

What the hell? Nice guy.

I went to the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on my face and rinsing my mouth out thoroughly. What in God’s name had I been thinking getting trashed like that with a biker that I hardly knew?

I hurriedly dressed and gathered my stuff. I wasn’t sure why Slate had left cash for me. I had all my tips in my purse, unless he’d ripped me off and had enough of a conscience to leave cab fare. I checked my purse; the wad of bills was still rubber-banded together at the bottom. I was thankful that I kept my billfold with all of my identification in it, along with my cell phone, locked in the glove box of my car.

I called a cab to take me to the Park and Drive lot. I was home before ten. I had a million things to do before Jack got in the next day. I wanted to make sure the laundry was done to his expectations. I needed to make sure the refrigerator and cupboards were well-stocked, and that the ironing was caught up for his majesty.

My first order of business after I’d showered and dressed was to get one of the other girls to take my shifts for me next week. I found the list with their cell phone numbers on it in my billfold and started calling. Emerald agreed to take my Tuesday and Thursday shifts. Opal, another new hire, jumped at the chance to take my Friday shift. I let Janine know of the switches. She was fine with it, asking no questions.

By the time Jack rolled in the following afternoon, all remnants of my secret life were safely tucked away and the house was in perfect order, just the way he liked it. I’d made a roast chicken for dinner. Our conversation was the typical above surface discussions about Lindsey, the house, his work, and my answering his numerous questions about this or that.

He went up to his office after dinner, as I cleaned up the kitchen, and he remained there until nearly eleven o’clock. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa in the family room. Jack woke me and instructed me to come to bed. I felt my stomach turn at the thought of him touching me. I had no desire for him after my attempt to seduce him the last time he was home had resulted in violent sex and a black eye.

I lingered in the bathroom getting ready for bed, taking an extra-long shower and giving myself a facial. I breathed a sigh of relief upon entering our room and finding Jack sleeping soundly.

I crawled quietly into our bed, the bed that had become mostly mine for the past couple of months. I found that I liked having the whole bed to myself. I turned on my side, away from Jack. I thought about those piercing blue eyes that continued to haunt me. I thought about how I wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with him.

The week ahead seemed to drag on for an eternity. I was anxious for Jack to be back out on the road so that I could resume the life (and identity) that had come to be mine. I realized it was a sick existence, to some extent. For now, it was my therapy until I could feel comfortable in making the break I knew I needed to make. I was going to discuss it with Becky this week. We were having lunch on Friday.

Jack had checked my job performance on the handling of our finances since he’d delegated it to me. He actually complimented me on my accuracy.

“You did really well on handling the books,” he said, coming into the laundry room where I was ironing his fifth shirt.

“Jack, I saw an electronic cash deposit made through an ATM in Virginia come through. I wasn’t sure how you wanted me to post that on the Excel file, since typically the deposits are payroll or transfer. Was this a one-time thing?”

“Oh, that,” he replied, turning to head back out to the family room. “One of the company cars was involved in a collision. I meant to deposit the check from the other driver’s insurance company into the business account for that branch office while I was down there. I cashed it by mistake. It had been made out to me. I’m glad you reminded me. I need to issue a check from our personal account to Banion Pharmaceutical Eastern District Office. I’ll do that now.”

By Friday afternoon, my nerves were frayed as I headed out to meet Becky for lunch. It wasn’t as if Jack had done or said anything. It was simply the fact that I missed the life I’d carved out for myself in his absence. I was back to being lackluster Samantha. I was bored and I missed dancing, but mostly, I missed Slate.

Becky noticed right away as the waitress left with our order.

“Okay,” she said, “what’s Jack done now?”

“He hasn’t done anything. He’s just home.”

“And that’s not a good thing, why?”

“Because I finally realized something, Becky - something I should’ve realized a long time ago. I don’t want to be married to Jack anymore. I probably never really did.”

Her eyes widened as she looked at me in disbelief.

“I don’t know why you’re acting all shocked, Bec. You’ve never been a fan of his. I believe you refer to him as a mannequin most of the time.”

“Yeah, I get that, but what brought you to this realization? I mean, you always seemed satisfied with the…mannequin.”

I shrugged. “I’ve gotten a taste of being on my own, making my own money, and not having to answer to him - to anyone. I like it.”

“Would you like to clue me in on what the hell you’re talking about, Sam? I know we don’t see each other as often as we used to, but we talk at least once a week. You’ve never mentioned a thing about making your own money. Did you get a job?”

There it was. I needed to confide in my best friend. She would either think that I’d gone off the deep end and was in dire need of medication and psychotherapy, or she’d be happy that I’d finally started to live. Either way, she would be honest with me, no holds barred. I told her everything.

Once I’d spilled everything to her, I sat back and waited for her reaction. It took her a couple of minutes to digest everything. I saw her mind coming to terms with what I’d told her about the club, Slate, and even Jack’s abuse.

She finally broke the silence.

“Sam, when I encouraged you to get a hobby or take classes, or get a job, it was more along the lines of making pottery, taking a cooking class, or working part-time at Bed, Bath & Beyond. I’d no clue you’d go and create some wild-child alter-ego and live on the edge.”

“So, you don’t approve?”

“I don’t think it’s
my
place to approve or disapprove. You’re my best friend and I don’t judge you like that. I
can
be concerned though. I guess that’s what I am:
concerned
.”

“Concerned that I’ve lost my mind?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. Don’t put words into my mouth. I’m concerned about where you’re working and the clientele that you seem to be drawn to, at least one of them. What do you know about Slate?”