Sting (27 page)

Fuck I miss her.
Badly.

Fucking WITSEC.

It makes me wanna drive over there, throw her over my shoulder and drag her arse off to some deserted island. No one can hurt her there. As simple as it sounds, we could just be Ryan and Willow.

Tonight I’ll call Skipper. I know he doesn’t want to get involved, but he’s the only one I can talk to about this. I need to tell Willow I’m a cop, and I need to do it right.

“Earth to Palmer?” Mick says, and play-punches my shoulder.

“What? Yeah,” I say and look around.

Mick peeks at the photo on my phone and shakes his head. “Sort your shit out, mate. I’m sorry things didn’t work out, but right now, get your head in the fuckin’ job.”

“Right.” I have a job to do. I can’t let her cloud my judgement. Not when things are at critical point.

I shut down my phone and slip it in my pocket. I move to the back of the boat and take a seat in the sun. Glancing around the side of the boat, what looks to be a Custom Flybridge Motor Yacht pulls into the docks. Amongst the rusted out old boats, which look as if they’ve been abandoned for years, it looks more like a cruise ship. The yacht is at least ninety-feet long, sleek and white, with dark tinted windows on the upper and lower deck. ‘White Mischief’ is written in large gold cursive writing on the side, each letter gleaming from the waters’ reflection. A black R44 helicopter is situated on the helipad.

We’re talking upwards of four million here. There’s no doubt in my mind that this is the man we’ve been waiting for. It’s pretty fucking cocky, if you ask me, cruising around in a vessel like this.

I grunt, to get Mick’s attention. “We’ve got company.”

He takes his time diverting his attention to the end of the pier. His eyes widen. “Now
that
is a boat.”

With some expert manoeuvring, the boat pulls in closer to the end of the pier, with fenders out. Three young guys in white polo shirts, matching shorts and tennis shoes move about the deck. They secure the vessel by the bow and stern with spring lines to the cleat hitches.

Mick’s phone rings and he scrambles to answer it in time. “Yup,” he barks into the phone. “Got it.” He disconnects the call and slips the device into his shorts pocket. “The accountant’s BMW has just pulled into the car park.”

“Looks like shit’s about to get serious,” I say.

Two burly Maori men in black suits and sunglasses, strut out onto the bottom deck. One of the men has an intricate black tattoo weaving up the side of his neck, and both have shaved heads. They could be twins.
The muscle has arrived
. Their gun holsters are evident by the way the suit moulds around the weapons at their sides. There’s definitely someone worthy of protecting on board.

“Jesus. Look who else is comin’ to the party,” Mick says and grunts. I hop off the boat and toy with the ropes wrapped around the pylon.

Hair slicked back, the sun picks up the gleam of his olive skin. His grey collared shirt barely covers his gut; the buttons strain to contain him. The breeze whips at his black slacks as he marches in his dark brown pointed boots towards the end of the dock.
Perez: our cartel connection.

I turn my attention back to the muscle. They move to the side as a middle-aged man in a suave cream suit, topped with a matching fedora hat, strolls onto the deck. He exudes wealth, from the cut of his clothing to the chunky gold chain at the neck of his black open-collared shirt. Gold rings drip from his fingers. With a lift of his square jaw, the muscle jumps to his side, like obedient dogs.

Perez boards first, closely followed by the accountant. The mystery man greets all of them with a firm handshake before ushering them inside. The deckhands scurry about, loosening the ropes. The engines roar and the luxury vessel slowly pulls away from the pier.

Imagine the shit that will be discussed today on that boat. If only we had some way of getting a listening device on board. We’ll have to talk to the dogs and see if they can install a bug on it, although we haven’t had any success getting access to the vessels so far. Being on the water is giving us our fair share of challenges.

It might be time to squeeze Bones with the threat of a parole violation.

****

As I make my way through to the kitchen, I turn on the lights and toss my car keys on the bench.
It’s time to talk.
My heart thuds harder in my chest with each unanswered ring.

“Hello?” the familiar voice barks.

I swallow down and clear my throat. “Skipper, it’s Clark.”

“Hey, Clark. Workin’ late?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time.” I let out a heavy sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“It’s all good. What’s up?”

“I need your advice.”
Big time.

“Whatever you need.”

I rake my fingers through my hair and huff a breath out of my nose. “It’s about the girl. Willow.”

“The girl?” he drawls. “I thought we agreed we weren’t digging any further.”

“I know we did, but it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” his tone is sterner now.

I love her.

I rub at the back of my neck and sit down at the dining table, bracing myself for his reaction. “I need to tell her I’m a cop.”

“Whoa, hold up a minute. You can’t just go flashing your badge around, you—”

“Like I said, Skip. It’s complicated. I need to know how to go about it, and I need your help,” I state systematically.

“Fuck me dead, Clark.”

“You know I wouldn’t ask something like this without thinking it through.” 

“Clark,” he says through a frustrated sigh. I can imagine him shaking his head and running his fingers across his brow. “To do it by the book, they’d have to do a top-secret clearance on her. They’ll drudge up everything, and we both know that these things take time. Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.” I tighten my jaw. I
am
sure.

“You don’t think she’s already been through enough with WITSEC?”

Fuck. I knew he’d bring that up. I’m just hoping that Skipper can tell me there’s a way around this clearance bullshit.

“Skip, I can’t even comprehend the shit she’s had to deal with. She needs to know this about me.” I won’t let her go. “Is there another way we can do this?”

“No. To do it right, you’ve gotta follow procedure.”

“Fuck,” I growl under my breath.

“How serious are we talking here? Does she love you?” His voice carries a softer tone now.

Love me? I fucking hope so. She has to. I can’t be reading this wrong.

“She hasn’t said it in so many words, but—”

“Listen to me, Clark. You’ve gotta walk away. Wait until the operation is over, and she’s got the clearance. If she talks you jeopardise everything you’ve worked for. You can kiss your career goodbye.”

“I know.” And yet, I’m willing to take that risk. In my gut, I know telling her is the right thing to do. My future happiness is on the line.

“It’s not just you this affects; it’s the whole goddamn team. Do you know how many man hours go into an operation of this magnitude?”

I scrape my hand down my face. “I know.” The sinking feeling in my gut has me swallowing hard.

“No, I don’t think you do fucking know. Look at the big picture here. It’s not worth risking it all over some girl.”

She’s not just some girl.

“Right, well thanks for that,” I spit out.

“Just take my advice, and do it by the book.”

****

Five.

Five long motherfucking days since I’ve seen Willow. It’s killed me to be away from her, wrecked me. I just don’t know what to say to her, if I see her.

I water her plants—
our plants
—just like I do every other day. I pull out a few stray weeds amongst the thriving seedlings, before wrapping the hose around the rusted hose reel.

I drive around the block and wait in my car, biding my time until she gets home from work. If I had my way, I’d be inside her house right now, running her a hot bath in preparation to strip her bare. After a soak in the tub, I’d carry her to her bed, have her beneath me, on top, riding me—have her crying out my name.
Sweetest sound in the universe. My universe.

Fuck!

I’ve turned stalker. It’s official. If I’m not careful, Willow will get a restraining order against me. The problem is, I can’t stay away. I need to make sure she’s okay. I have to be close. My mind keeps churning over every little detail.
Ezekiel.
I’m battling with the demons of her past.
Of Angel’s past.
And then, there’s my own. Living a lie.

If I wait for her to get clearance and for the operation to be over, it could be months before she knows the truth. The longer I wait, the less likely she is to give me another shot.
Fuck my life.

I check the car’s clock display. 6:05. She’ll be locking up, and on her way home soon.

My phone beeps, echoing in the small space.

Mick: Call me.

“What’s up, man?” I ask. My knuckles whiten as I grip the steering wheel with my free hand.
This better be good news.

“Lee just finished another long session with our boy, Bones. Ideally we need a good couple of weeks to groom him, but there’s no time.”

He’s right. We’re taking a big risk with this fucker.

“What came out of today, then?”

“Bones said he was afraid he was getting in over his head. Apparently they were pushing him to move some big numbers. After busting him for possession, and talk of being charged with distribution, he’s agreed to cooperate. Apparently he’s set to meet up with Perez tomorrow.”

“Fuck, man. It couldn’t have gone down any better. Let’s just hope he’s not dicking us around.”

“This takedown is so fucking close I can smell it,” Mick says. The excitement in his tone is unmistakable.

“Yeah, we’re certainly making headway. I’ll update Pete now, and see if they’ve got anything more from the listening posts.”

“Righto, well get some sleep, hotshot.”

“I’ll try.”

I drive by Willow’s house an hour later, and her car is parked in its usual spot. I breathe just that little bit easier.
She’s safe.

I roll the car to a stop and blow a kiss in the direction of her lit bedroom window.

“Night, Blondie,” I whisper.

At least now I have a fighting chance of getting some sleep tonight. She’s home. It’s still a fucking kicker, though, knowing she’s alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

WILLOW

I drag my sorry butt out of bed, and cower beneath the hot streaming water. I didn’t dare check the mirror on the way, because really, what’s the point? I know I look like crap, because I sure feel like it.

I’m completely drained. It feels like there’s nothing but an empty space in my heart, my body a hollow shell.

Crying myself to sleep last night was not the release I’d hoped for. In fact, every night since the day I told Ryan we were over, the tears have fallen, and my emotions have strangled my every thought.

The memories I have of Ryan, whether I want them or not, will stay with me forever. Every sense will remember him. The man I’ve cared for, the one I’ve loved, more than any other.

The sight of him; all of him. That dimple. His heart-stopping smile. The taste of him: his lips, his skin. The sounds he would make when we made love. When he came. The way his muscles would flinch beneath my fingers, and the strength in his frame, in his soul. The tantalising smell of his crisp aftershave. A vision of him, that day on my swing. The hint of sweat, the dirt and earthiness clinging to him—just as I once did.

Never again will I experience any of these things, because I won’t do it. I won’t walk down the path that leads to death and destruction. Drugs will never be a part of my life.

****

On my way to my car, I remember to water the plants. I forgot when I got home last night, so hopefully they haven’t wilted after a stinker of a day yesterday.

The soil is damp to the touch. My plants are standing strong and healthy
. Huh?

I swing my head around to find the garden hose wrapped around the coil on the side of the house. I know for a fact I didn’t pack it up like that yesterday morning. I didn’t have time. The problem is, I know who does. It makes me want to rip every last one of these plants out of the ground.

Why does he even care? Why bother tending to my garden when we’re over?

He didn’t explain himself. What he said was cryptic; it didn’t make sense.

Work.

He was talking to that guy for work. He’s an apprentice boat mechanic, for crying out loud.

I huff and puff as I water the plants, deliberately leaving the hose in a tangled heap so I’ll know if someone else has touched it.

****

The screen door that once upon a time squeaked and slammed on its hinges, doesn’t. Instead it slowly glides to a close, barely making a sound.

I growl to myself. Where’s the satisfaction in that? I’ve a right mind to open it and make the damn thing slam the way it used to. The way it did before Ryan got his I-can-fix-everything hands on it.

I walk in through the back of the café and put my bag in the kitchen. A male voice, teamed with Gabs’, mumbles in the distance. It’s half an hour before we open, and any deliveries before then always come through the back.

I poke my head around the corner, and spy Mick leaning on the counter beside the register. He reaches for Gabs’ hand and she offers it.
Don’t they seem friendly?
Any other time, I’d be overjoyed for these two to be making progress, but everything in my life is just grey, surrounded by a thick smog of lies. I’m not sure what’s going to get me out of this funk.

“He’s head over heels crazy about her,” Mick says.

“I know,” Gabs says, her tone carrying such empathy. “It’s a cryin’ shame, because I really thought those kids were meant to be together.”

“I don’t want to get involved. I shouldn’t, but Ryan is my workmate. He’s a good bloke. All I’m saying is that Willow needs to give him a chance.”