It’s in the parking lot outside my apartment that I finally start to shake, my nerves reacting to the mountain of tension that my willpower managed to suppress for far too long. I stopped counting the number of drops a year ago. They were all so small, so easy. But then they started getting bigger, and the thing with Sal happened . . . and now I’m dealing with major deliveries. I know in my gut that they’ll only get harder, more risky.

There was a break from deliveries after the “incident,” during which Sam showered me with Louboutins and pretty dresses and diamond earrings. I thought that was his way of saying he was sorry, that he acknowledged that involving me in his “business” was a bad idea.

I let myself believe that it was over.

Then a man cornered me coming out of the gym one night in May, just after finishing the last of my high school exams, asking all kinds of questions about Sal and Sam. I kept my cool, playing the clueless, normal eighteen-year-old girl to award-winning perfection.

I told Sam the second I got home and the next day, he handed me a manila envelope full of new documents and identification—birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, credit cards. Everything needed to be twenty-two-year-old Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. The package came with a one-way ticket to Miami leaving that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it. With a heavy hand on my shoulder and a slow, even voice, Sam said that his little mouse needed to disappear for a little while. “This will keep you safe and hidden from guys like that. Just relax, lay low, and wait until all this blows over. We don’t want anything pinned to us for Sal.”

To us.

“But what about Tisch?” I had asked.

I got a regretful smile in return. “You’re going to have to delay for a year. Too risky, otherwise. I’ll take care of it.” I remember the disappointment that flooded through me at that news.

Instructing me to hand over all of my real identification, right down to my bank card, Sam murmured, “You’re not you anymore. You’re Charlie Rourke and only Charlie Rourke. Be who you want to be but stay in character, my little actor. As long as you do that, no one will find you. No one will hurt you. Everything in this envelope is legit. It’s a genuine ID.” Muttering more to himself, “For a hundred G’s, you should have no issues at all.”

I remember my jaw dropping—a rare but unplanned reaction.

This wasn’t a half-assed get-you-past-the-bouncer type of ID that you pick out from a bag of stolen driver’s licenses. Sam would have had to start making these arrangements for me long before yesterday, before anyone ever approached me.

That was my first clue that Sam wasn’t telling me the truth.

And when the first drop request came a month after moving to Miami, I knew with certainty that this move had less to do with my safety and more to do with business.

Sam was looking to expand his enterprise into Miami.

And he’d decided to use me to do it.

That’s when I started wondering if that guy who approached me outside the gym that day was ever a real threat. It was all too well timed to be a fluke. Perhaps he was a friend. Perhaps Sam hired him to give him an excuse to send me to Miami.

To scare me.

I’ve thought about just running. Packing my bags and disappearing into the night. But Sam’s earlier words hang over me like an ominous cloud. You can’t run from me. As long as Sam has a name, I’m afraid that he’ll find me.

And when he does . . .

What’s left? The plan. It’s a good plan.

I’ve created an entirely new person, complete with big, bold curls and brown eyes and layers of makeup, with equal parts perfection and flaw. A real person in the eyes of the unsuspecting.

Just not really me.

I’ll stay until I make enough money and arrange for a new identity. One that Sam doesn’t know about. And then I’ll run. I’ll fly to the farthest corner of the world.

I’ll disappear.

For real.

Chapter five

CAIN

“We’re fully stocked again, thanks to moi!” Ginger’s husky voice hollers as I stroll past, on my way toward my office. The sound of clattering beer bottles stops and I drag my feet back to the walk-in fridge, where I find Ginger ass-up in her shorts, leaning over a keg, trying in vain to move it. The girl may be well toned, but she has no hope in hell of moving a 160-pound keg.

Without hesitation, I dive in and grab the other side. “You know Nate or one of the other guys will move all of these around, right?”

With a phssst sound, she smirks and mutters, “You know I don’t need a man for anything.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yes, Ginger. You’ve made that very clear.” Taking visual inventory of all the beer as I run a hand through the back of my hair, I mutter, “How did this happen?”

Ginger’s grin is nothing short of triumphant as she folds her arms over her ample chest and leans against the cooler wall. Streaks of blue that weren’t there yesterday run through her hair. “We really need to work on your charm with customer service, Cain.”

I wait for her to elaborate, knowing full well that it would take more than charm to get our fridges and shelves restocked that quickly, given the supposed shortage. Finally, Ginger confesses. “A small truck came by last night with sweet f**k-all. So . . .” The way she draws that word out, her pretty eyes averting to the ground, I know I’m not going to like what I hear. “Hannah and I gave the delivery guy a short demonstration of the private show he’d get if our supply room was somehow miraculously filled by tonight.”

“Jesus Christ, Ginger,” I groan as my forehead hits the door frame. I have a good idea of the kind of “show” those two could provide, given that they’ve been linked as an item in the past and are, at the very least, close friends. “You know I won’t let anyone prostit—”

“Hey!” She snaps her manicured fingers inches from my nose. She’s one of the few people who has the nerve to do that. “Don’t you dare use that word with me. We offered no such thing. But, if letting the f**ktard get off in his pants while Hannah and I round second base means we don’t have to deal with angry customers all weekend, then I don’t give a rat’s ass who watches. I’ll do her full-on, right up on the stage!”

Ginger rarely gets snippy with me and she’s fairly private when it comes to her relationships, which means that the supply issues have started to wear on her. Unhappy customers generally mean shitty tips, and shitty tips means pissy staff. They work hard for their money.

I hold up my hands in surrender. Now that she’s negotiated this deal, backing out would guarantee an irate deliveryman and even worse service for who knows how long. “Okay, fine. But don’t ever offer anything like this again. And warn me so I can turn the cameras off, will you?” I don’t want any evidence of . . . anything. “And make sure you’ve got Ben or Nate outside that door, for safety.”

She winks. “You’re welcome.”

Shutting the cooler door on our way out, I add, “You know, I could use a full-time manager. You sure you don’t want the job?”

“I’d rather have my scalp waxed,” she says in a singsong voice, heading back toward the main bar to finish setting up. She comes up with a new clever retort each time I ask. “Oh,” she slows and throws over her shoulder, “don’t forget that Charlie’s on at eleven. Try not to act so weird again, okay?”