Sticky (9 page)

5
:30, and still no sign of Gage. I sit on the curb outside Morton’s, having already waved goodbye to my coworkers half an hour ago. Rick sticks his head out of the door when another round of customers enter.

“Yvette’s running late, you want to come back in and cover ’til she gets here?” he asks.

I cast one last, longing glance at the road in both directions, but alas, there’s no sign of his car anywhere. I heave one last sigh, and trail after Rick back into the diner, slinging on my apron once more. “Just for a few minutes,” I tell him. “Then I’ve gotta run.”

“Uh huh,” he replies with a meaningful sideways glance that tells me he is not buying it. It’s not like I told him I had a date, but when was the last time I ever waited around for anyone to pick me up besides Freddie? And when Freddie picks me up, he always insists on arriving an hour early so he can get a free meal out of it, when I sneak him side dishes from the kitchen.

Great. So not only have I been stood up, but my jerkiest manager knows it too. He saw me with Gage a few nights ago; he’ll have guessed by now I’m waiting around for that same guy like a pathetic hanger-on.

“You know, guys like it when you play hard-to-get,” my coworker Bethany comments as she breezes past me with a tray full of steaks.

Oh good. And Rick helpfully told everyone who works here his theory too.

Rick pats my shoulder as I head back to key in the first of Yvette’s tables’ orders. “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea,” he says with a smirk.

Kill me now.

I end up sticking around for half of Yvette’s shift. By the time she makes it into the diner at 7:30, apologizing profusely about her car breaking down, the dinnertime rush is out in full force. I stick around an extra half an hour to help with the flurry of customers, and then I clock out once more, folding my apron and counting out my tips for the second time that day.

“You need a ride home?” Rick calls as I’m almost to the door. “I’m finishing up here in twenty.”

Why is he acting so friendly all of a sudden? Normally the most he ever talks to me is to scowl or point out that I’m doing something wrong.

“I’m good.” I shrug into my coat. “I’ll just walk. It’s not too far.” And for once it’s still pretty warm out, the spring evenings finally beginning to turn pleasantly breezy instead of frigid.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and goes back to counting up our profits from the dinner rush.

I push out of the exit door and suck in a deep breath of salt-tinged seaside air. Only now, finally alone and away from the prying eyes of my coworkers, do I let the disappointment and exhaustion show on my face.

Still no sign of Gage, though of course I, like an idiot, can’t help checking in both directions for his car before I button my coat tight and trudge onto the road.

No word from him, either. Not that I’ve been checking my phone every ten seconds since 5 p.m. or anything. I pull it out one last time and open a next text to him.
Heading home. Sorry I didn’t see you tonight.

That’s all. He’s smart enough to figure out I’ll be upset. If he even cares.

Ugh. Why did I let myself fall for him so fast? Like an idiot, I listened when he kept talking about how much he cared about me. In truth, we hardly know each other. It’s only been a couple of days, and while I know he enjoyed it—the expression on his face last night told me that plainly enough—I shouldn’t have expected anything real or lasting to come out of this.

Nothing that starts this quickly or burns this hot could possibly be real. Nothing that feels this addictive could possibly last.

Now my drug is being taken away, and I’m going to have to deal with the withdrawal alone. I whip out my phone a second time and place a call to my brother instead.

Four rings in, it goes to voicemail. “I see how it is,” I tell his answering machine, in what I hope sounds like a playful, teasing tone, but which I’m pretty sure came out sounding way more morose than I intended. It feels like everyone’s avoiding me tonight. And why?

Fuck it. I might not feel confident enough to march over to Gage’s place and confront him about what the hell he thinks he’s doing standing me up, but I can sure as hell crash my own brother’s undoubtedly uneventful night. He’s probably five hours deep into a video game marathon, or binge-watching one of his favorite sci-fi shows on Netflix. Nothing that can’t stand to be interrupted.

If anything will cheer me up—and remind me that I don’t need a guy’s affection (much as, admittedly, I really want it)—it’ll be popping a terribad made-for-TV movie into my brother’s DVD player and making him order me an XL pizza, heavy on the cheese. Tonight’s a night for comfort food.

I’m almost able to forget about the sinking ache in my chest by the time I reach my apartment. Inside, I change out of my work uniform, wrinkling my nose at the whiff of diner-scent that still clings to it, and shimmy into loose jeans and a tank top. Not the cutest outfit ever, but I’m not in the mood for dressing nicely tonight.

I grab the top movie from my stack of to-watch DVDs, toss it into my purse alongside a toothbrush, just in case I’m too lazy to drive home, and stomp down the stairs into my car. Distraction, here I come.

E
very time
I’m about to stand up and climb the rest of the way down this godforsaken building, yet another car pulls up out front, freezing me in place yet again, as I wait for potential witnesses to clear the area. By the time I finally have a long enough window to drop down all five stories to the ground, it’s dark out and I’m frozen stiff in my T-shirt.

I dust myself off in the flowerbed, and, still being careful to avoid any headlights or passersby, I make my way across the lawn back to my car.

No sooner have I escaped the balcony where I was trapped than my phone rings. I was checking the time, inwardly cursing—already 7:45 p.m., Sloan is probably pissed at me, or worse, upset—when the unknown name unknown number ID popped up. There’s only one person that call could be from.

Or, well, one person, or a telemarketer. But I’m pretty sure it’s not the latter.

“What do you want, Aaron?” I say when I hit accept.

“Shit. Did the call block break again?” he asks from the other line. I can almost picture him scowling at his phone now, wondering if he messed up the settings that allow him to anonymously harass most of his clientele.

“Nope, I’m just smart,” I reply as I unlock my car door and swing into the passenger seat.

“Yes, well, I’m not so convinced about that.”

My fists clench in anticipation. “What now?”

“I just got a call from our cybersecurity expert.” Fancy term for the Topknot lookalike who he pays to monitor his online bank accounts, but okay. “Cybersecurity” it is. “Looks like there’s someone mucking about in my email account. They left a message in the Draft folder, so we can’t trace the IP address or location it was saved from. But the log-in records show they’re based in downtown Atlantic City. Would you like to hear the message?”

My eyes dart to the window in Fred Casey’s room. The soft yellow light spilling out of his computer room, highlighting his now-familiar profile, still bent over the keyboard, the same position he’s been in just about all morning. “I have a feeling you’ll tell me whether I’d like to hear it or not,” I mutter.

“Maybe you are smarter than you look,” Aaron snaps. “Though not very adept at covering your tracks. ‘Dear Mr. O’Malley,’ it starts out, can you believe that?”

I don’t answer him. I shut my eyes and wait for the verdict.

“ ‘Dear Mr. O’Malley, It has come to my attention that you’ve been sending your associates to check up on me, and the remittance of a loan I purportedly borrowed from your establishment.’ This kid.” Aaron actually laughs. “ ‘I would hate to have to file a police report, especially given the nature of your dealings. If you would like me to keep this quiet, I suggest you ask your employee to meet me face-to-face, and tell me exactly what it is you need from me. That will be better than all this beating around the bush, don’t you think? Or shall I say, hiding on my rooftop.’ Not sure what that last bit means, Gage, but I can take a wild guess,” Aaron adds, his tone less than pleased. “The email is signed Frederick Casey.”

I grind my molars together. Shit. Okay, so the kid is sharper than I took him for. It wouldn’t take a rocket science to tie me to Aaron, considering the timing of my break-in at his apartment. “What do you want me to do?” I ask, my eyes shut tight.

“Well, I think we’d better do as he asks, don’t you? Go to his apartment, have a little chat. Tell him we’d like the $500,000, or we’re going to have to take this to the next level. Do me a favor and don’t be that polite about it, either. Let him know we mean business. Think you can handle that without screwing it up, Gage?”

Deep breaths. Do not threaten your scary, sketchy as fuck employer. You won’t live to tell the tale. “Got it,” I finally answer gruffly, when I’ve tamped down the
Go fuck yourself
far enough that it won’t accidentally slip out of my mouth right now.

We hang up without another word, and I stuff my cell into my pocket, forcing myself to ignore the missed text that just popped up from Sloan. I’ll reply to her as soon as I can. Unfortunately, right now, I still have business to attend to.

With a sigh, I turn around and head straight back toward the house I only just escaped.

M
y brother’s
bedroom light is shut off when I park out front, which is unusual for him. Normally he’d be glued to the computer in there. Must be watching TV or something instead. That or he’s out somewhere, which would be even weirder. Like, alert the media, it might be the end of the world, weird.

I park out front and take the steps up to his floor two at a time. Just before his landing, however, I pause, hearing my brother’s voice loud above me, as if he’s standing in the hallway.

“Oh, I know exactly what you’re saying.”

Freddie?
I hesitate. He sounds angry. I don’t want to walk in on something. What if he’s got a girl over? Wouldn’t he have told me if he was trying to date someone? I think it’s been two years now since he went on a single date, but hey, you never know.

That or it could be one of his guy friends, the couple he plays video games with but almost never sees in person. I silently debate if I could climb back down the staircase without him hearing. I feel bad spying.

I’m about to turn and leave when a deep, masculine voice answers my brother. “Then you know how serious this situation is.”

My mouth falls open.
No way
. I can’t be hearing this right. I’m hallucinating. I’m just so mad about him standing me up, and pained at how much I miss him after such a short time, that I’m imagining Gage’s voice in my brother’s apartment building.

I can’t leave without finding out for sure. Poised on my tiptoes, I creep up the next couple of steps, toward the landing. In another step or two, my head will peak over the balcony in the hall. They’ll be able to see me, if they look over. I hold my breath.

“I do indeed. But do
you
realize? Because you don’t seem to know who I am or what you’re actually dealing in.” My brother’s voice has shifted from pure anger to a hint of cocky arrogance. That’s my twin—he could piss off a saint, I swear.

Also.
Dealing?

“Don’t worry about me. You’ve got enough on your plate,” Gage answers. Even the sound of his voice makes my traitor heart beat faster, my limbs tremble with the memory of everything we did less than twenty-four hours ago, every way I let him claim my body, swallow my heart whole.

I can’t stand it anymore. I sneak up another step and steal a glance at them. Sure enough, Gage stands in the hallway, glaring through the open door at my brother, who leans on the frame just inside his apartment, arms crossed, a sarcastic smirk on his face. Then, before I can duck back down the steps, or leave to process exactly what I’m hearing and what’s going on, Freddie’s gaze flashes to me.

He shakes his head, just slightly, a subtle side-to-side, but I know my twin well enough to understand what he means. Now’s not the time to step in, Sloan. Back off.

Unfortunately, Gage notices the motion too. I can’t make myself turn away, not fast enough. It feels like I’m watching the scene in horrified slow motion, as Gage pivots on the spot and his eyes scan the apartment hall, until they finally come to rest on me. For a second, all three of us freeze, no one quite knowing what to make of the situation.

You stood me up so you could come threaten my brother?
I want to shout. Because that’s clearly what he’s been doing. Freddie wouldn’t be posed there all defensive and asinine if Gage hadn’t started in on him about something. I wonder if this is about the gambling, if Gage has come to talk to him about the debt Freddie has racked up.

And if so, then what does that mean for me?

Why did Gage sleep with me? For this?

I don’t want to talk about this in front of Freddie. I don’t want to deal with any of this—not my brother, not the man I thought I was falling for, not the drama they’re both embroiled in.

Gage and Freddie both open their mouths at once, but I’m not sticking around to listen to their shitty excuses. Before they can speak, I whirl on my heel and thunder down the stairs, two at a time, moving as fast as I can toward my car.

Fuck this shit. I’m out.

“
S
loan
.”

She walks faster, legs pumping. Less than five feet to her car. “Sloan, please!”

I jog, and she breaks into a run, grabbing at her car door the way a drowning woman would grab a life raft. She flings the door open and throws herself into the seat, but by that point, I’ve caught up enough to grab the edge of the door, clench my hand tight around it when she tries to wrench it shut.

“Just let me explain, Sloan.”

“Explain what?” she practically spits. “I get it. Sketchy guy runs up a gambling debt, enterprising guy working for the casino in question decides to seduce his sister to get in good with him. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“That’s not what’s happening here, Sloan.” Not exactly. Not anymore. Maybe it’s the reason I first started following her, but she’s so much more than that to me now. She’s everything. “Please, just let me explain.”

“You stood me up tonight,” she spits. “You stood me up, in order to come here and threaten my brother. That tells me exactly where I stand, Gage. Let go of my door.”

I release my grip and she slams the car door tight. I press my palms to the window. “I can’t involve you in this,” I say, loud enough that I know she’ll hear me through the glass. “It’s not safe.”

“Nice excuse,” she shouts back at me, though I’m not fooled by the anger she’s putting on. I can see the tears glittering in the street lights, pooled at the corners of her eyes.
Shit
. “But I’m not buying it.”

“Sloan, you have to understand. I need to protect you.”

“I’m sure I’ll be safe when you piss the fuck off,” she spits.

I let my hands drop to my sides, defeated. She’s right, after all. She will be safer without me around. Without a fucking bastard like me, her life is normal. Maybe her brother’s knee-deep in shit, but if he cares about her at all, he’ll know better than to drag her into it with him.

Before I can wrap my head around a reply, an explanation for why I want to stick with her at least long enough to be sure her brother won’t do exactly that, won’t drown her in his panicked attempts to stay above water, she floors the gas pedal. I stand in the middle of the road, staring after her for what feels like an eternity, long after her taillights fade into the dark.

Fuck
.

What the hell am I going to do now?