Becoming Rain (23 page)

Chapter 38

■ ■ ■

CLARA

I stare at my flushed face in the restroom mirror, my hands shaking as I process what just happened. What I just
let
happen.

When he called me to go out tonight, I immediately suggested the movies, knowing it was a way to be with him without deceiving my cover team or worrying about what might be said. I figured it'd be a good way to slow things down a bit, too, while still gaining his trust, keeping his attention. We could hold hands, steal a kiss or two without Warner or Bill hearing anything over the blasts of the speakers.

Of course I picked a gory movie, something to steer my mind and body away from the fact that I don't want to just hold hands and kiss. That the devil on my shoulder convinced me to wear a short skirt, and that I was wet the second my ass hit the leather seat of his car.

I can't believe I just allowed that to happen.

While wearing a wire!

With my cover team listening!

I'm sure that's not the first time this back row has served a tawdry purpose. It happens often enough. Two years ago, I got called to the local AMC to bust two sixteen-year-olds for indecent exposure after they got a little carried away. There have been plenty of “incidents” of guys going in alone and coming out in handcuffs because they felt compelled to jerk off. So where the hell do I fit in, exactly? The horny teenager or the pervert?

Desperate for Luke. That's what I am.

I was keeping an eye on the entrance from the second we sat down, watching for someone from my cover team. I didn't notice any lanky male forms slipping into the shadows. Even if someone did, he wouldn't be able to see what was happening.

Still!

What if I'm wrong and the Feds now have the sounds of me getting off recorded, for all to hear?

Needing some reassurance, I pull out my phone. “Oh my god,” I groan, clutching my stomach, as I see the four missed calls from Warner. My phone was on vibrate, but I can normally feel it through my purse. If I hadn't been . . . distracted, I would have noticed it going off.

It starts vibrating again.

I manage a weak and croaky, “Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“Restroom. Why?” I close my eyes. Here it is. It's coming. I'm so screwed.

“12's car just got jacked.”

It takes a moment for his words to register. “What!”

“Yup. Right out of the parking lot.” Warner starts laughing. “Serves him fucking right.”

“Who the hell—” I dive down to check the stalls for feet. It's empty, fortunately, but I lower my voice anyway. “Who would take
his
car?”

“Whoever it is, I'm about to give them a medal.” I roll my eyes as Warner continues. “One guy, definitely a professional. Punched in the driver's-side window and reprogrammed the keyless entry. Forty-five seconds, in and out. I timed it! Got it all on video, too.”

“You sure sound impressed,” I mutter, groaning.

“Oh, come on! You've gotta admit this is pretty damn funny.”

I purse my lips together. “Yeah. The jackass does deserve it.” But,
oh, man,
is Luke ever going to freak out. He loves that car. I look at my watch. There's still about thirty minutes left in the movie. “Did you put a tail on it?”

“I called Franky. He caught up pretty easily and is following him right now.”

“ 'kay. What do you want to do, boss?”

“We can't give the locals a heads-up until 12 reports it stolen. I'm hoping he's got a high-end tracking system on it that this guy doesn't get to first.”

I stuff my panties into my purse. As short as my skirt is, there's no way I'm putting them back on after they've been on that floor. “Got it. I'll get him out of here.”

I duck back into the theater in a completely different frame of mind than when I left five minutes earlier. Luke's leaning back in his seat, legs spread casually, a smug smirk on his face.

“Hey, you wanted to leave, right?”

He reaches up to take my hand and pull me down. “No, we can stay. I know you really wanted to watch this.”

I shrug. “I've kind of lost track of things. I can always rent it another time. I figured we could head back to your place . . .” I let my words drift off as my hand wanders over his lap again.
Yup,
still rock hard.

Too bad that's going to shrivel in about four minutes.

■ ■ ■

“It was right
here
, right? I'm not crazy, am I?” Wild eyes scan the parking lot as he hits the alarm button on his key fob for the tenth time. As if the car is magically going to appear.

“No, you're not crazy, Luke. I'm sorry.” I stroke his arm soothingly. “You really should call the police now, before they get too far away. Maybe they can still find it.”

His hands push through his mane of hair, sending it into disarray as he comes to terms with the fact that his car was stolen. He pulls his phone out from his pocket, frantically dialing, his jaw set. “Yes, my car was stolen and you have a tracking system on it . . . Yup.”

“I hope whoever did this hasn't found it yet,” I mutter, holding out no hope. Proficient thieves—and, by the sounds of it, this guy is—will find and disable one of those within minutes of pulling away from the steal site.

“They'd have to find all three,” Luke answers, a hint of his calm, confident demeanor returning.

Of course Luke would have not one, but three tracking devices on his car. I can guess who suggested that.

I wait quietly as Luke calls all three agencies. Sure enough, one has already been deactivated. But two are still intact, and the police are dispatched quickly. With those calls done, he dials someone else. “Hey, Rust? . . . You won't fucking believe what just happened.” And then Luke just starts laughing.

Because even he must see the irony in this.

■ ■ ■

“Do you realize how lucky you are?” the officer muses as he takes down Luke's driver's license, comparing it against the paperwork found in the glove compartment. “Most of these cars end up across the ocean.”

“It's not luck,” Luke murmurs, that cocky smile back. His arm curls around my waist, pulling me against him with a relieved sigh. I fall into him because it's three in the morning and I just really want to sleep.

“Still . . . Could have ended up driven into a wall in a high-speed chase instead of parked in a storage locker.”

“He's right,” I say. “That would have really sucked, hey? You love this car.”

He peers down at me, a deep furrow in his brow. “Yeah, that would have.” I search his eyes for any recognition that he helps screw people over in the exact same way.

I'm sure I see it there.

“Do you have any idea who stole it?” Luke asks the officer.

“We'll be collecting evidence on the site and car. You'll get a call when you can come and pick it up,” the guy drones on. He obviously hates his job. I wonder if he signed up for this or if he did something stupid in a previous assignment to relegate him to police impound detail.

If I keep my own stupidity up, I might be taking over for him some day.

“Alright. Let's grab a cab back to my place.” Luke pulls out his phone.

“Sure, but I'm going to head home. I have to get up early.”

He frowns. “For what?”

“I volunteer . . . at a soup kitchen once a week. Tomorrow's my day.”
Mental note—find a soup kitchen and start volunteering there once a week.

Nodding to himself, he admits, “Yeah, I guess it's pretty late. I need to be at the garage in a few hours, in case Miller's still out.” He leans in to kiss me softly. “Soon?”

I force a smile, hoping the casualness of his invitation doesn't tip the team off that there has already been a first time. “Sure.”

Chapter 39

■ ■ ■

LUKE

“Did they tell you when they'll be finished with the car?” Rust's voice is groggy, like he just woke up, even though it's after ten and he's showered and shaved for the day and is standing in the garage's office.

“A few days. I just ordered a replacement window. They said that'll take a week to come in.”

He tosses the keys to his Cayenne to me. “Take mine until it's back.”

“You sure? I can rent a car.”

He waves my concern away with a dismissive hand, his eyes roaming the white walls of the tiny space, where we've managed to cram two desks into enough space for one.

“Listen, if anyone asks, tell them your engine was giving you problems and you sent it to the dealer for repair.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because some jackass stole my nephew's car and I want to find out who! I'm going to make a few very discreet calls to see if this is a local crew or something bigger. We don't want anyone moving in on us. It puts more heat on the area.”

“Alright. Where are you going to be today? RTM?”

“No, I need to sort out a hiccup.” I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Some deliveries that haven't made it to the warehouse yet. Not sure what the delays are.”

It's almost funny: in one breath he's condemning the people who stole my car; in the next, it's business as usual. Am I the only one who's been feeling more than an ounce of empathy for these people who we royally fuck over? I wonder, if Rust had been the one to walk out of a movie theater and see his car missing, whether he'd have second thoughts about what we're involved in.

“How are you handling things around here?”

I nod slowly, looking over the neat piles of color-coordinated folders in front of me. Four days ago, facing the organized chaos that is Miller's desk—a two-foot-tall stack of paperwork that combined invoices, customer orders, and a half dozen other forms that I have no clue what to do with—I would have answered Rust with a lot of bitching and moaning.

But I slowly figured my way through things, sorting paperwork, making calls. I actually feel like I have a handle on running this place. Of course, there's still plenty I don't know, but the place hasn't come to a halt without Miller.

“It's going pretty good, actually.” I get to talk to people, and I actually feel useful because I can usually diagnose what's wrong with their car based on their complaints. Plus, the guys around here seem to like me more than Miller. That's not to say I'd ever get rid of Miller, but still, I like feeling like I'm managing something.

Most of all, though, there isn't that same anxiety I feel when I'm on the phone with Rodriguez or the other fence, Cage. The tension that stiffens my back every time I pass on another message for another car they need to steal. Another person I'm about to screw over.

Here, I'm actually solving people's problems, not creating them.

He starts rubbing his chin in that very “I have an idea” Rust-like way. “I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks.”

I laugh. “I saw you last Sunday night. It's been stupid busy in here, with Miller gone and me figuring things out. I've been working late every night. Hell, last night was the first time I saw Rain since the weekend.”

“Rain?”

“That girl I took with me to Aref's party.”

“Right. You never gave me her name before. How'd you meet this girl, again?”

“She's the one who brought her Audi in that day, remember?”

“Ah . . . yes. Pretty girl.” He nods slowly, smiling. The smile is quickly wiped away with a frown. “You're spending a lot of time with her.”

“Not really.” Not nearly as much as I want to. Every night when I get home, my eyes wander to my window and across the way, looking for her. She said she'd be busy with some assignments that she's been slacking on this week. I don't know what kind of photography course this is, but she seems to be taking it fairly seriously. That, or this is all part of that speech she gave me about “not losing herself to another guy.”

“More than your usual girls.”

“So?”

He shrugs. “So, you should bring her around one night. I'd like to meet her.”

“I don't know if we're quite there yet.” Introducing her to Rust is basically introducing her to a parent. Worse, I'd actually care if Rust didn't approve of her. It would crush me.

“Fine. Then at least meet me at The Cellar tonight and pretend that you remember who I am.”

I start laughing, earning his smile.

The door squeaks open and a haggard Miller walks in.

“Hey! Look who made it back! You feeling better?” Rust exclaims, watching his diligent manager amble toward his desk.

“I'm fine. Marie's just overreacting,” Miller grumbles in response.

“Hey, I had no idea you were married,” I say.

Rust chuckles. “Maybe you two should actually talk once in a while. Who knows? You may learn to like each other. Miller, take it easy. Let Luke handle more. I need you firing on all cylinders, right?” I'm guessing the high-browed look Rust shoots Miller has nothing to do with operating the garage. The big shipment night is coming up and Miller will be the one picking up the payout from Vlad in the dark motel parking lot.

“I'll be fine.” Miller clears his throat, bringing up all kinds of phlegm that contradicts his words.

Rust knocks against my desk. “Tonight. We have some things to talk about. And . . . I'll have some paperwork for you to sign.” There's that smile again. The one I always see when he's about to surprise me. “I wouldn't recommend changing the name, though.” He winks. “ ‘Rust's Garage' is kind of known around these parts.”

My jaw drops. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Miller's is hanging low too. “Seriously?” Rust is keeping his word and signing over the garage to me?

“And set something up with Aref at Corleone's for later this week.” He levels me with a stare on his way out the door, and I know I had better get my ass in gear and not get distracted by his latest display of generosity.

I look up to see Miller watching me quietly. I wonder what he's thinking. Probably that my first order of business is to fire him. Truth is, if this week taught me anything, it's that Miller is a really good manager and this place needs him. “I took care of most of the invoicing and orders. Payroll's done. There's just that yellow folder left that I had no idea what to do with.”

“Maybe you're not completely useless, after all,” he grumbles as he begins rifling through the unfinished work.

“Relax. Your job is safe,” I chuckle. “You run this place better than I ever could.”

That seems to soften him a bit. “No car today?”

I wait until he lifts his oversized mug of coffee to his mouth before I say, “It's with the cops, being processed for evidence after some asshole jacked it last night.”

Coffee sprays out of Miller's mouth and all over his monitor, over his desk. “Son of a bitch,” he growls, grabbing a wad of napkins nearby, only to knock the mug over with his elbow, spilling the rest of the coffee onto paperwork.

I know Rust said to keep it on the down-low, but this is Miller. I'm over the initial shock. Now I'm equal parts annoyed and amused by the irony. The part of my conscience that keeps chanting, “You fucking deserve it,” keeps me from getting too angry.

“Here.” I toss a roll of paper towels his way.

He grabs it with one meaty hand. “Joyrider?”

“No way. Had to be a professional hit. They found it in a storage locker in NoPo, just off Highway 5, waiting to be moved no doubt.” It's shocking how quickly I've come to understand this whole operation. “They're processing the car right now. I'd love to see who they were planning on selling it to.” Saying that is as close to admitting that I know all about the ring and what Miller does for Rust. A part of me wants to talk to Miller openly about the entire thing, to see what he thinks, to ask him if he ever wishes he were
just
the garage manager.

“I wonder,” he mutters, clearing his throat several times. He looks about ready to collapse, his face red and swollen, swiping at a bead of sweat running down his brow.

“Are you sure you're okay? You can go home if you need to. I can manage for the rest of the week. I don't want you dying on me.”

“It's nothing. Just this damn cold that Paige gave me. It's more annoying than anything.”

“Paige?”

“My daughter.”

“You have a daughter?” I don't mean for it to sound as incredulous as it comes out.

“I have three.” He falls back into his chair. “All teenagers now.”

Miller's gene pool is walking around Portland right now. With breasts. I'm trying to picture that but, taking in the deep cleft in Miller's chin and his trunk-like limbs, I'm struggling. I hope they got their looks from their mother. I have no idea what she looks like, but I'm guessing anything would be an improvement.

By the glare Miller shoots my way, I'm guessing he can read my mind and he's about ready to punch me. I deserve it. I'm being an asshole. “Probably why you're so stressed out,” I offer.

“Yeah, probably,” he mutters, hanging his head a little as he tries to salvage an invoice.