The Forgiven: The End Game Series (Book 5) Page 14

  “Be quiet.”

  Nerve struck, but he wasn’t done.

  “That’s why you’re suddenly a fixture at NFL social events and hanging back at camp long after the Good Samaritan group wraps up, isn’t it?” Remy knew a double agent when he came across one, and she was carrying out her orders to the letter—buddying up to the players and staff, going off to check-in meetings with the team’s owners. “That’s why you let Omar Beckham box you in at the bar that night in the Mirage, isn’t it?”

  He’d noticed that, too. At first perception, he hadn’t liked the picture of the guy touching her. But her body language and the almost clinical way she reacted to Beckham’s flirting was reminiscent of the technique she used when she was undercover.

  Whether she was working a cover or not, Remy didn’t appreciate another man touching his woman. It wasn’t fair of him to feel possessive, particularly when he couldn’t provide the life she deserved. He’d never been good about sharing.

  “What if the thing with Omar is genuine?” she challenged quietly. “If I like having the attention of a man who doesn’t remind me of my cane and my limp?”

  “A man who makes it easy for you to lie to yourself?”

  “Remy, of all the men who approach me, I would estimate about ninety percent of them lose interest when they realize I carry a stick. It’s a symbol of damage and neediness, I suppose, and it sucks major huevos.”

  So he reminded her of her vulnerabilities, and Omar Beckham helped her forget them. “Be honest with me. Do you want to forget reality all the time, or are you letting him circle you because you think he’s a name you can turn in to the Greers?”

  “I… I don’t know, Remy.”

  “Yeah? I think you do, deep down where’d you need to dig and dig hard to find it. You left that club with me. You remember what we did before we ended up there, and what we did when we came back here.”

  He did, in tormenting vivid detail. Being with her wore him out, wrung him out, and he couldn’t see himself ever getting enough of it.

  “When it comes to that,” she said, “you’re the only one.”

  “I’m the only one getting your cunt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would that still be true if giving that part of you to Beckham or anyone else could score you a name to turn in to the Greers?”

  “¡Cállate! I won’t listen to you tear me down when I am doing nothing wrong.”

  “Nothing illegal. An agenda can be legal but still all kinds of wrong.”

  “Really? Just consider, then, that if you believed that five years ago, I wouldn’t have been shot.” She sighed. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to keep throwing this in your face. It hurts you and it hurts me.”

  “I’m a hypocritical bastard. I get it. But I don’t want to see you make the mistakes I did.”

  “Why do you care so much if you never loved me?”

  Remy wouldn’t answer that. She’d already extracted so much from him, and he wouldn’t compromise her further by rattling her judgment. Giving her reasons to love him would accomplish just that. She was sharper—they both were—when emotions were in check.

  “Listen to me. Grimaldi was watching you before I got involved,” he said gravely. “That’s why I got involved.” He had been called from his self-perpetuated exile for her. From the beginning, it had been about guarding her.

  “Are you giving me reasons why now?” She turned to face him. “Why go to such lengths for a woman you never loved?”

  Remy hopped off the counter and paused in front of her as he left the kitchen. “Before you ask that question again, give yourself some space and time to think about what the answer might be and decide if you’re ready to handle that kind of truth.”

  “Remy—”

  “Get going. It’s half past nine.”

  * * *

  Some secrets were a woman’s to keep.

  Meg didn’t believe in letting any man dictate her schedule—even the fake boyfriend in charge of ensuring her safety—and figured Remy would persuade her to cancel her spur-of-the-moment lunch plans if he knew about them, so she’d kept mum when he asked her what she had lined up for the day.

  Their fight still ringing through her system, she was glad she had followed her instinct to do whatever the hell she wanted because this was still her life.

  In front of CCL, she saw the man from before. Same corduroy pants, which appeared soiled with mud now. Around him, people spilled out of the library as others pursued it. Those who didn’t pretend not to see him passed with glances that ranged from suspicious to irritated to repulsed.

  She didn’t feel sorry for him. She felt ashamed of the others—and herself, for having put cash in his hand with the belief that it would impact his life in some meaningful way. Climbing the steps with her tote bag hanging off a shoulder and her cane reflecting the merciless sunlight, she greeted, “Any room for me on that step?”

  “Well, hello, friend.” The man scooted over and she settled next to him, much to the bewilderment and annoyance of the patrons coming and going. “Back again? You were here yesterday.”

  Meg shook her head, holding concern at bay. The man likely wouldn’t take too kindly to a “poor you” look. “No, it’s been longer than that. The days go by faster now, it seems. When I was a kid, summers were endless. Barn chores in the morning, horseback riding in the afternoon, and superslow nights of sneaking lemonade from the fridge and watching fireflies out the window.” She smiled at the simplicity of those Texas summers. “I whined and complained about being bored, but my friend and I always found a way to get ourselves into trouble. We made our own excitement. All that’s changed now.” She spied him, then retrieved a Nickel’s sub sandwich from her bag and unwrapped it on her lap. Taking half for herself, she gave him the other. “What were summers like for you when you were a kid?”

  “Same as yours,” he said. “Horses and chores and the like. I grew up on a farm. You?”

  “A ranch.”

  “My buddies and I rode like the wind on bikes. We used to play baseball—modified, though. Instead of baseballs, we used melons. Instead of bats, we used lumber. Got a lot of splinters that way.”

  She smiled at that and they ate in silence for several minutes.

  “Aren’t you going in the library?” he asked.

  “Nope, not today.”

  Realization blossomed in his eyes. “You made the trip just to share a sandwich with me?”

  “I was hungry and was hoping you might join me.” She crushed the wrapper and brushed crumbs off her pants. “How are you coming along with the Copernicus biography?”

  “I finished it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Four times already. A librarian gave it to me and asked me to keep it.”

  “Kind librarian.” Providing it was an act of kindness and not a gesture to shoo him out of the building. “So where do you usually read your books?”

  “Here.”

  “Las Vegas is a far cry from farm life,” Meg said gently. “Where are you, usually, when the fireflies come out?”

  “Waiting for them.”

  Meaning he slept outside? Then he was homeless. “When it rains and there’s lightning, where are you?” she pushed, needing to know, needing to find a way to lead him to better circumstances.

  “I think these are getting to be rude questions,” he said, and his lucidity was a startling contrast to his fuzzy demeanor when she’d sat down. Then again, he’d just put some solid food in his belly, so perhaps the sustenance was starting to help clear his mind.

  “That’s not my intention,” she said, but she wasn’t sorry for prying if it’d help him get off the street and into a shelter with a bed and a shower and access to three squares a day. “I should go. But I think I’ll be back tomorrow around this time to eat my lunch.”

  He considered her with those rheumy eyes under deeply hooded lids and nodded. “You might be i
n the mood for soup and a baguette. There’s a place down the way here on Flamingo that makes a nice-tasting lemon chicken soup.”

  “Thanks for the rec.” Her memory fell back to the afternoon she’d met him and how she’d mentally cringed at the potato chip he had given her with his bare hand. Now, humbled, she outstretched her hand and decided she wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t accept it. “I’m Meg.”

  “Cliff.”

  When he shook her hand and she made her way down the steps, she was a little reluctant to leave. Sitting in front of a library, sharing a sandwich with a stranger, was an escape. For a short while she hadn’t thought about researching controlled pharmaceuticals, sniffing out substance-abusing athletes or outmaneuvering a disgruntled casino owner with the riches of a pharaoh.

  She had thought about Remy.

  Lately she held him in her mind. It must have everything to do with close proximity and the peculiar way his tense energy melded with hers. Their hearts communicated, she was certain of that.

  Yet, in anger she’d asked him if he had a heart.

  She friggin’ hated the way they’d left things this morning. They were both guilty of putting too much out there and unleashing emotion that would do neither of them any good.

  More than that, she hated not being in on his secrets. The Arizona bust crumbled because he hadn’t trusted her with the important-as-all-hell detail that he was wearing a mask and there was another layer to their mission. They’d been in love but where was the trust?

  Oh, but wait. The love had been one-sided then.

  As she turned the Ferrari’s engine and headed for the posh bridal boutique where her friends waited, she tried to block a new suspicion. Fear, really. It had already formed, though, and now she knew—the love was still one-sided.

  Chapter Ten

  Bubbly went a long way toward revitalizing Meg’s pep and good cheer. After one delicate flute’s worth had teased her system, she remained mostly unaffected and stuck on the angry argument she’d left unresolved. So she had another, graciously nodding from a fainting couch in LJD’s Couture Brides’ drawing room when one of Leda J. Dawson’s assistants addressed her. “More champagne, Miss Fuentes?”

  Meg was weighing the pros and cons of a third glass when Joan Greer used her mother-of-the-bride authority to cut her off and switch her to a choice of mineral water or Panama-imported coffee.

  “The beverage selection is superior, that’s true, but try not to consume too much now,” Joan advised in her cloud-soft voice as she beckoned the assistant to take away the Boërl and Kroff on its polished platter. “Our timeline doesn’t give us much leeway for adjustments and alterations, so today’s measurements will need to be spot-on. Do you have a tendency to bloat? Because I’ll have to ask you to refrain from sampling the juice, as well.”

  “But…” Meg indicated Waverly’s bridesmaids, sprinkled throughout the drawing room that looked more appropriate to host elegant balls than house wedding gowns. A couple of the women had just returned from their fittings in the back of the salon, and the rest waited to be pulled and stuffed and pinched and cinched. “They’re drinking juice. Aly has milk.”

  “Aly’s child is apparently as dramatic as she is and has given the girl heartburn. Only dairy offers any relief—though I think it’s a convenient excuse to overindulge in ice cream and cheesecake and whatever else she’s unwisely introducing to her baby. Honestly, she’s rolling the dice, and it’s by the grace of God that her body has the genetics to resist that kind of overeating.”

  The woman in question stood between her sisters, the tallest of the three Greer girls, a vision of perfect pregnancy health. Her melon-sized baby bump was covered with a short fluttery dress, and apparently her feet weren’t too swollen to deprive her of fashionable high heels.

  Aly broke away from the huddle to go to her teenage foster daughter, who was ogling a rather risqué designer gown displayed in a lighted curio cabinet.

  Meg admired Aly Batiste’s boldness and courage to go for what she wanted—despite a fierce and oppressive mother standing in her way at every critical turn.

  “I’d say she and her doctors are in the best position to determine what is and isn’t healthy for her baby,” Meg told Joan firmly, though she accepted a glass of mineral water with a peaceful smile.

  No use pissing the woman off twice in a single day. Earlier at the Villains’ administrative offices, she had informed Joan and J.T. that she’d had knowledge of Omar Beckham’s party—so did the media, though no arrests or other complications had come of it, and they’d swiftly lost interest. When she admitted she’d turned down the player’s invitation, thereby throwing away the opportunity to scan the place for illegal substances, the Greers had all but lost their shit.

  Omar’s infamous reputation clung to him, and there was added concern about the possibility of his contaminating the roster. Waverly’s friendship with him could, and likely would, push her into a precarious position.

  So Meg agreed to take him up on his next invitation. In all likelihood there wouldn’t be another. At the club in the Mirage, his flirting and her rejection had been unmistakable. She’d introduced Remy as her boyfriend, and if Omar was a stand-up guy, he wouldn’t tempt her to hook up, and he definitely wouldn’t try to kiss her again.

  Another few seconds and it might’ve happened if she hadn’t turned her face or if Remy’s arrival hadn’t brought things back into clarity.

  In fact, it had been during that moment, when she stood at the bar with a good-looking athlete in front of her and the man from the darkest chapter of her past in the background, that she’d tested the waters of escaping her reality. Omar made her feel desired, sexy, and as whole as any other woman—but their connection was false. When Remy had stepped into her sights, she’d known.

  Remy didn’t let her ignore her cane and who she was now. He was the brightest and most devastating part of her, and damn Miz Willa for correctly pegging her as someone who was in love but didn’t want to be.

  This was Meg’s life, and she had the final say-so in whether or not she would allow him to leave footprints on her heart again.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Pardon me?” Joan sipped from her own champagne flute.

  “Nothing. My mind wandered.”

  “Then I was right to switch you to water.”

  “Has everyone arrived?” This from the bride whisperer herself, Leda J. Dawson. She was Wedding Gown Expert Barbie brought to life, with meticulously trimmed blond hair and clear blue eyes that seemed to encourage “Just lend me your troubles, darlin’.”

  Leda greeted everyone individually, chatting briefly with the ladies she’d previously met. The only newcomers were Aly’s foster daughter, Maddie, and Meg.

  “We have a stylist specifically for Maddie,” the woman said, adding an enchanting smile. “The others are here for final measurements. A last-minute maid of honor isn’t typical, but some of my most brilliant work has come from unconventional situations. Besides, our bride is quite an independent one, and she doesn’t wish to overburden you with duties. Essentially, we need to get you fitted, accessorized, and review your ceremony duties concerning the train, bouquet, et cetera.”

  “Great. Let’s all go check out the dress—”

  “Might I have a moment with you first? I’d like to give you a tour and explain the palette. Catch you up.”

  “Weddings have palettes?” Meg asked as Leda summoned her from the fainting couch, and the woman looked flabbergasted.

  “Leda’s approach is very artistic,” Joan contributed, sending them off with a wave of her flawlessly manicured hand. “I imagine you’ll want a wedding of your own after touring this salon.”

  That was laughable, being she had no genuine romantic prospects willing to slip a ring on her finger even if she’d allow it. Though she did pause, captivated, at a glimmering glass case displaying gowns, veils and jewelry Leda J. Dawson’s grandmother had designed
during the Truman administration.

  The place held suites reserved for brides’ entourages. Waverly’s suite resembled a fancy old-fashioned sitting room. A pedestal and stepstool sat in the center. A pin board covered half of a wall, and it was cluttered with designs, handwritten notes, fabric swatches, and photographs of venues, flowers, and hairstyles.

  “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Waverly said, entering the room and joining Meg and Leda in front of the pin board.

  “It’s kind of perfect.” If the actual event even partly resembled the board, it would be an unforgettably beautiful affair. “So this is really, seriously happening. Waverly Greer and Jeremiah Tarantino are getting married.”

  “Yup, that’s what the invitations say.” Waverly smiled, but there was a question in it. Are things going okay?

  Since Antony Grimaldi’s unwanted presence at Desert Luck Center, Waverly had begun to check in with her more often, and she’d come close to telling her fiancé everything.

  Meg nodded as if to say, “I’m all right.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Meg. Jeremiah is, too. We wanted you to be a part of this.”

  “Hey, no sappy talk right now. My eye makeup is on point.”

  “It certainly is,” Leda agreed with approval. “And not to worry about smudging anything. You made a wise choice to wear a button-down top, and you’ll be stepping into your gown.”

  She was referencing the miniature debacle that had happened a short while ago when the first bridesmaid, Waverly’s college friend Khloé McBride-Rhodes, had tried to tug her clinging crewneck shirt over an eight-months-preggers belly, glasses, and an uncontrollable mane of curly hair. What made matters worse was her baby started dancing on her bladder while she was struggling to free herself.

  Fortunately, someone had been able to rescue her from disaster and mortification that would’ve likely caused permanent social damage.

  “Shall I get the design now?” Leda asked Waverly.