Convict: A Bad Boy Romance (19 page)

* * *

F
or two weeks
, I dine with Valdez most nights. He’s a serious car guy, and we have long talks about security systems, about the best cars we’ve ever driven, about the worst cars. We both have a soft spot for our first cars: his was an ancient Volkswagen Beetle, mine was a Geo Metro five years older than I was.

Weirdly, I think we’re becoming
friends
. We never talk business, only cars, but sometimes the car talk bleeds into life. I wind up knowing more about him than I thought I would.

After two weeks, the guards come and take me to a doctor’s appointment. I tell the other inmates it’s for high cholesterol, but it’s really so a couple of FBI agents can put a wire on me.

Technology has come a long way, but this thing is still pretty obvious. If Valdez gets suspicious, if
anything
at all happens, I’m fucked.

When they’re done taping it on, one of the agents leans down.

“Remember,” he says. “We need evidence that they’re taking people across international borders and forcefully preventing them from going home. Domestic servants, farm labor, prostitutes, whatever.”

I just nod. For the first year of prison, every time I closed my eyes I saw those girls in the shipping container, terrified, huddling away from me and into the dark. I don’t know their names, I don’t know where they were from, I don’t know what happened to them. I’ll never know.

But I can’t forget. Even though, despite myself, I’ve come to almost like Valdez.

“Got it,” I say.

That night, at dinner, we talk about drag racing and he tells me about his first girlfriend while I think my heart might beat right out of my chest. He doesn’t know it’s there. No one does.

I wear it for two months, until one day, the FBI tells me they got what they needed.

S
tone stops
, staring out at the ocean. We’ve relocated twice as he talks, and now we’re on a bench overlooking a surf spot. He’s drinking a beer from a paper bag, and even though I almost got one myself, I’m just drinking bottled iced tea.

He
did
make me swear not to arrest him.

“Well?” I ask. “You got him to talk?”

He takes another sip of beer, then looks over at me, smiling.

“It was pretty anticlimactic in the end, really,” he says. “Valdez never suspected me. He never even thought I might have worked for the Syndicate. And when the FBI had gotten what they needed, I didn’t even realize it.”

“How did you not realize?” I ask, frowning.

Stone shrugs.

“They were listening for certain names and dates, evidence that he’d been somewhere at a given time. He never said, ‘Yeah, I arranged for young women to be sold into slavery as maids and prostitutes,’ but I guess he implicated himself all the same.”

I make a mental note to look up Andrew Valdez when I get home. I desperately want to believe Stone, because this story makes everything fall into place — of
course
someone recently out of prison and in WitSec acts a little weird.

I want to believe him more than I’ve ever wanted to believe something before, because I want him to be
real
. I
want
him to be a real, sexy, truth-telling man who likes me and wants me and violated his witness protection oath just so I’d see him again.

But I also have to make sure. I can’t help it. It’s my nature.

“And they figured out it was you who got him to talk?” I ask.

“I think it was pretty obvious once they pulled me from prison and took down the human trafficking operation in short order,” he says. “Those guys are a lot of things, but they’re not dumb.”

I look into the mouth of my iced tea bottle, like it’ll tell me what to say, because I have no idea.

Sorry you had a rough life and I didn’t believe you?

Sorry you were in jail and stuff?

Sorry you actually did something right and now people are after you?

“Do you regret it?” I ask.

The sun is dipping into the ocean, and a cool breeze moves across the bluffs where we’re sitting, looking down into the water. I shiver and try not to think about the cold.

Stone just laughs.

“I think I’d have to regret my whole life from the get-go,” he says. “There wasn’t one big decision that led me down the wrong path, Detective. There was just small one after small one until next thing I knew, I was in supermax fighting a guy named Hammer.”

“You didn’t have to go to supermax,” I point out.

Stone goes quiet again. Then he looks over at me.

“You’re shivering,” he says, sounding a little surprised.

“I’m fine,” I say.

He puts his arm around me anyway, and I let myself lean into him, my head on the thick muscles of his shoulder.

“I almost didn’t agree to wear the wire,” he says, looking down at his beer can, his fingers rubbing over the brown paper. “I didn’t want to be a snitch. I didn’t want to be the guy who ratted everyone out, a traitor. Some kind of lowlife. I still feel guilty about Valdez sometimes. Even though what he did was terrible, I still knew the guy who got excited talking about high-performance brakes.”

He rubs his other thumb over my shoulder, the rough pad raising gooseflesh on my skin.

“But that was the first time I can remember that right and wrong were so
obvious
,” Stone goes on. “It wasn’t the choice between stealing cigarettes or my mom screaming at me when she ran out of smokes, or the choice between kicking some kid’s ass today or getting mine kicked tomorrow.”

Stone suddenly chuckles, and I look up at him.

“It felt
good
,” he says, like he’s surprised about it. “Is that why people become cops?”

“It’s one of the reasons,” I say.

There’s another long pause, both of us staring at the sunset. It’s a nice one. They’re all nice ones here, honestly.

“And after that, they just... pulled you out of jail and sent you here?”

“There was more paperwork,” Stone says, and I laugh.

“Of course,” I say.

“They moved me around motels outside Atlanta for a couple of months, gave me different fake names. Sent me to a shrink. Then, one day, they hand me a folder, tell me to pack the few things I’ve got, and that my plane leaves in four hours. The next day, Tony’s driving me to my house here.”

“You ever been to California before?” I ask, tucking one leg under me.

“I’d never been west of the Mississippi,” he says.

I’ve still got a million questions, or maybe just a couple of very big questions. My brain feels like it’s a whirlpool, swirling with all this new information. I kind of wish I’d taken notes or something, except of course I can’t. No written record. No anything.

“Ellwood?” I finally ask.

Stone sighs.

“My grandmother swore it was a family name,” he says. “I think she had an uncle named Ellwood, though it could be hard to get a straight answer out of her.”

“Did you pick Stone yourself?” I ask.

“I did,” he says. “WitSec didn’t like it, they wanted me to be John or Bob or Bill, but I finally got my way.”

He looks over at me, the hand around my shoulder playing with my hair, wrapping one curl around his finger over and over again.

“I told you about Stone,” he says. “He fought for the south. My grandmother had a picture of him hanging in her living room, and she used to tell me how he walked home from Appomattox to his family farm in Tennessee when the war was over. Supposedly that’s how dedicated he was to his wife and family, though I always suspected it was the only way he had to get home.”

“And I guess that made an impression on you,” I say.

“As a kid who never met his father? Yeah,” Stone says.

The sun’s below the horizon now, a cool breeze has picked up, I’m freezing, and my brain feels like sludge after listening to Stone’s story. But I have one more question.

“Did they find you?” I ask.

He stares at the ocean for a long moment, one finger in my hair.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I think they’re just shaking the tree to see if I fall out.”

He tells me how the Syndicate works, by getting associated gangs to try to scare people into running. He tells me how
he
used to scare people into running.

“That’s what that weird symbol is,” I say. “The one on the garage, and the overpass, and my car.”

Stone sits upright.

“Your car?” he says.

I just nod.

“
That’s
what you wouldn’t tell me at the police station, when you were acting so weird. You knew who did it all along,” I say, comprehension
finally
dawning.

“I don’t know who did it,” Stone says, quickly. “I only know who ordered it.”

“I’ve been looking in all the wrong places,” I say, leaning forward, my hands on my temples. “We’ve been trying to find people who had a grudge against the cars’ owners, kids or something.”

I might solve this after all. It might
work
.

“I should go home,” I say, and stand.

Stone stands as well and takes one of my hands in his.

“You didn’t give me your verdict,” he says.

“On what?”

“On whether you still think I’m full of shit,” he says.

I look up at him. Even in the twilight, his eyes are bright green, burning with an intensity I’ve never seen anywhere else.

“If you were in an interrogation room, I’d tentatively believe you,” I say. “There were a lot of details and everything was internally consistent. But I’d try to corroborate some of your story anyway.”

“Is that what you’re doing tonight?” he asks.

“I need some time to think,” I say. “Even if you’re telling the truth, I just found out that you’re a lifelong criminal who did five years of hard time. And, just to remind you, I’m still a cop.”

Stone grins, and one dimple sinks into his cheek.

“But you’re a bad cop,” he says, letting his voice drop.

I shiver, and it’s not the temperature.

“Let me come home with you,” he says, his voice still low and rough.

I shake my head, even though I can feel heat creeping up through my core. I need some time to sort through things, and if he comes over, that is
not
what we’re going to end up doing.

“Come on, Detective,” he says, like he’s trying to cajole me into this.

I frown.

“Seriously, no,” I say, taking half a step back.

Stone squeezes my hand.

“Luna, wait,” he says. Now he sounds serious.

“I’m going home
alone
,” I say.

“Let me protect you,” he says.

I narrow my eyes.

“They found you,” he says, his voice hushed. “They got your car.”

“That was a dumb police prank,” I say. I already wish it hadn’t slipped out of my mouth.

“You don’t know that.”

“Then why didn’t they kidnap me or something?” I ask. “My car wasn’t even properly
vandalized
.”

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice urgent. “But sometimes they can be sick, twisted fucks. Luna, if you’re in danger it’s my fault. Let me protect you.
Please
.”

I drop his hand and cross my arms.

“I’m a
cop
,” I say.

“You don’t know them.”

“What makes you think you can protect me any better than I can protect myself?” I ask.

Stone looks at me for a long time before he answers.

“I won’t hesitate,” he says. “You’re too good a person to shoot first and ask questions later. I’m not.”

“You can’t have a gun, you’re a felon,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

“No,” I say, and start to walk away. “I’ll call you tomorrow, but Stone, you have to give me a night.”

I toss my iced tea bottle into a recycling container and start walking back the way we came, toward my car.

“Luna,” he says, walking after me. He throws his beer can in another bin.

“That was the trash, not recycling,” I call over my shoulder.

“Fuck recycling!” he shouts after me. “You’re not going back alone.”

Oh,
fuck
no he didn’t just tell me what I’m not doing. I stop in my tracks and whirl around.

“Yes, I am,” I say, forcing myself not to shout. “I’m going home alone and I’m eating leftovers alone and I’m reading everything I can about Andrew Valdez alone and then I’m drinking tea alone and then I’m going to bed alone. And if you follow me or try to enter my home I swear to God I’ll arrest you, Stone, and you can spend the night in the Tortuga lockup.”

His eyes flash and his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m who other people call to protect them, Stone,” I say. “Give me at least a little credit.”

Then I walk away again. This time, he doesn’t follow.

I
let Luna walk away
. I hate it, but I let her, even though the better part of me is growling and furious that I didn’t put my foot down and
insist
that she let me protect her.

She’s taking your balls with her
, I think.
You just handed them right over
.

If I could punch that part of my brain, I would, because the reasonable part of me knows there’s no point to arguing with Luna over this. She’s stubborn as hell, she’s going to make her own decisions, and she’s probably right that she can protect herself.

But I’m not about to take that risk. I got her into this, after all. If those motherfuckers hurt her or worse, it’s
my
fault.

They’ll get to Luna over my dead body. I’m not about to give up. I’m just taking another tack.

I watch her until she disappears into town and around a corner, then walk for my own car.

* * *

T
he best defense
is a good offense
, as my buddy Nate used to say, all those years ago when I still lived in Partlow and stole pickup trucks for scrap metal. He usually said it while he was six beers in and watching football, and I’m sure he didn’t make it up himself, but it stuck.

I go on the offense. I head back home, grab my bike, and head to Sylvie’s.

They can come after me all they want. That’s fine. I knew what I was getting myself into when I wore that wire. I made a choice.

But if they’re going to go after Luna I’ll kill every last one of them. I know she thinks the drawing on her car was just some other detective fucking around, but I have a bad feeling about it. It just doesn’t seem right or
likely
somehow.

I’m painting a target on myself, but if they know about Luna, they’ve already got me. I don’t know what their game is, but they figured out how to get me to play.

I nod at the doorman, and he nods back. I go up to the bartender.

“The usual?” she asks.

“Sylvie coming in today?” I ask

The bartender looks at me funny, because this isn’t how it works. People come in, they wait, Sylvie shows up. She gives me a long, strange look. Then she points to a door in the back.

“You can wait in her office,” she says.

I’ve never been in Sylvie’s office before.

“Thanks,” I say, and head through the door.

It’s just a shitty office. The desk is messy and has an ancient computer on it.

I don’t have to wait there long before Sylvie comes in.

“Stone,” she says, taking a seat.

I just cut to the chase.

“I’ve got information that I heard was worth something,” I bullshit.

She taps her fingers on the desk, glances at the computer screen, then looks back at me.

“You came into
my
bar and demanded an audience,” she says, her voice quiet but steely. “This isn’t a fucking spy novel. Be straight with me or leave.”

“The Syndicate’s looking for a guy named Ellwood Perkins who ratted them out and disappeared,” I say. “He went by Sam.”

Sylvie clasps her hands together.

“What are they offering?” I ask. “A reward? Access?

“I don’t know the details,” she says. “But I did hear something.”

“You got a pen and paper?” I ask.

She pushes them toward me, and I write my phone number down.

“Someone who wants to know calls this number, I know where to find Ellwood,” I say, then push it across the desk. “Serious inquiries only.”

I turn and open the door again.

“Stone,” she says.

I turn and look at her.

“You’re sure?” Sylvie asks, holding the slip up paper up.

I understand the gesture:
you can still take this back
.

I think of Luna’s head on my shoulder this afternoon, of how good it felt to
finally
tell her.

“I’m sure,” I say, and leave.

* * *

I
go
straight to Luna’s neighborhood. It’s a charming residential corner of town, full of little bungalows and tiny duplexes, all stucco and Spanish tile roofs. Just like you’d see in a tourism brochure, or some “Visit California!” poster from the 1960s.

I ride past her house slowly, trying to keep my engine noise down so nobody feels the need to call the cops. She’s got the curtains drawn, but I can see the TV flickering through them. No broken windows, no open doors, so I ride away.

I do that four more times, until the lights go off in her house. I feel like a total fucking creep, just watching a woman’s house like this, but it’s not like I’m peeping in through her windows to watch her get undressed. I’m watching the outside of her house, making sure no one tries to get in.

Once I think Luna’s in bed, I park two houses down, under a tree, and lean against my bike. She’d be pissed if she found me out here, but like
hell
I’m leaving her alone and unprotected, cop or no.

I wonder if she sleeps naked. I wonder what she looks like when she wakes up, sleepy, her hair wild. My face between her thi—

Fucking do your job
, I think.

I stare at her front door for a few more minutes.

Then I think of Luna saying
you like it when I let you fuck me?
and I go rock hard.

Shit. All the danger in the world can’t obscure how bad I
want
her, even when I should be watching out for her. Like right now.

I adjust my jeans and lean against my bike at a different angle, trying to think about
anything
but Luna, naked, making that soft little moan she made when she was about to come.

My dick twitches. God
damn
it.

I’m concentrating so hard that I don’t see the cop car until it pulls up behind me, even though the blue and red lights are flashing, and I turn around, surprised as hell, only to be blinded by the spotlight.

I’m not even doing anything.

“Hands on your head,” a man’s voice says through the loudspeaker. Both doors open, and the officers step out, watching me carefully.

Don’t go down like this
, the stupid part of my brain says.
Fight back. Run. Fucking do something
.

Instead I put my hands on my head, because they’re armed and I’m not, and because I don’t want to go back to prison. They shut the car doors and step forward. One spins me around roughly as the other frisks me.

“Mind telling us what you’re doing out here at one o’clock in the morning?” the younger man asks.