Becoming Rain Read online

  Luke’s car kicks up a cloud of dust as he heads down the driveway, honking his horn in farewell.

  “So, you and Jesse are flipping cars?”

  His smile tells me he’s proud to talk about this. “I take care of the business side of things. You know, finding the right car, talking to the owner and negotiating the price, dealing with the auctioneer. And Jesse . . . well, he’s a whiz in the garage. He can make any car run like new in a quarter of the time it takes most mechanics.” He shrugs. “We each walk away with a good chunk of change and we both love doing it.”

  “How many have you sold?”

  “Four. I figure one a month is a good side business for now.”

  “How entrepreneurial of you,” I tease, but inside I’m beaming that he’s not above earning a legitimate income. “It’s too bad Jesse and you live so far apart.”

  “Yeah . . .” Luke slides on his sunglasses and settles back into his seat now that the road has smoothed out a bit. “I don’t really have a lot of friends like Jesse. I mean, I’ve got plenty of people I talk to, but he and I are different. I trust him.”

  “You’re so easygoing. I figured you didn’t have trust issues,” I say casually.

  He smiles. “I do. Not sure why.”

  I’m pretty sure I know why. “I get it. I have my group of girlfriends back home and I kind of stick with them.”

  “You must miss them right now. That’s a big move, coming all the way out here.”

  “We still text a lot, so it’s not so bad. And everyone’s busy. But, yeah. I do really miss them,” I answer truthfully. “They’re all at our annual girl’s weekend in Loudoun right now. It’s a wine region in D.C.” I missed the last trip too. Sometimes I’m afraid they’re going to blacklist me. “We’re a special group.”

  “Nice. And what makes them so special? Tell me about them.”

  I can’t tell if he’s truly interested, but we do have a long drive—and while I should be using it to gather information, opening up myself is how I’m going to get him to do the same eventually. Plus, being able to talk about my real friends—Clara’s friends—relaxes me.

  So I start listing the ways that we’re all so different and yet our personalities seem to mesh perfectly. How we can be our true selves around each other—strengths, flaws, and all—without fear. We just “get” each other. We praise each other’s successes and call each other on our bullshit. We’re laughing from the moment we say hello until we’re forced to say goodbye.

  I finish with, “I don’t know what I’d do without them in my life.”

  “You haven’t stopped smiling the entire time that you’ve talked about them. They sound like a lot of fun.” He grins. “Do you have a picture?”

  “Not on this phone.” I freeze. Normal people don’t have two phones unless they work, and he knows that Rain doesn’t work. I quickly improvise. “I just got this iPhone a few weeks ago after my last one broke. I need to get it fixed so I can upload everything to Cloud.”

  He nods, buying my answer.

  Wanting to steer the conversation away from my accidental slip and knowing that I need to be focusing on Luke and not myself, I say, “Speaking of friends—thank you for bringing me out today. They’re all nice people. I really like them.”

  “Well, they loved you.” He turns to flash me a smile. Like us approving of each other is a big deal for him. The funny thing is, hearing that makes me happy. I care that they approve of me.

  “Have you known them long?”

  “Nah, a few years. We’ve just been through a lot together.”

  “Alex said sort of the same thing earlier.” I’m not sure how to broach the subject, but I decide morbid curiosity is fair reasoning for anyone. “So . . . that’s a terrible scar on her face.”

  He nods in agreement.

  “What caused it?”

  Luke’s jaw visibly tightens. “It’s a really long story.”

  I wait another second before pushing. “It’s a really long drive.”

  I know the signs of indecisiveness. Shifty eyes, multiple swallows, licking lips. He’s considering how much he should divulge, if anything. How awkward this three-hour drive will be if he blows me off.

  His thumb drums against the gear stick, but otherwise he says nothing. So, I tentatively rest my hand on top of his. With just a moment’s hesitation, his fingers shift and entwine with mine, until my hand is encapsulated and we’re shifting together.

  And I tell myself that this doesn’t cross any moral lines. That I’m doing what I need to do to make him talk. That also enjoying the feel of his warmth is no big deal.

  “She was married before hooking up with Jesse.” I feel his eyes flash to my face. “The guy was a possessive asshole. Used to slap her around, hurt her. Treat her like shit, generally.”

  “She obviously left him.”

  “I guess you could call it that. She definitely got away,” he says cryptically.

  I think I know where this is heading. “Before or after she hooked up with Jesse?”

  “The guy fucking deserved it. It’s not like he was faithful to her. Hell, Pris was screwing him regularly! Jesse risked everything for her. His whole family has. He treats her like a queen.”

  I reach for my bottle of water, hoping such a casual act will lessen the tension suddenly growing in the car. “She seems to think you played a big role in her getting away. That she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

  “Uhh . . .” He lets go of the steering wheel to scratch the back of his neck—an embarrassed gesture. “I was just at the right place at the right time.” He pauses, then adds, “And I did the right thing. For once.”

  “Did you know her husband?”

  “Yeah. My uncle’s business partner. I met him two years ago, when I started hanging out with my uncle more. Thought he was so cool back then, all rich and Daniel Craig–like. He had this really controlled, suave way about him. A Russian James Bond. He’d bring Alex around sometimes. She looked really different back then.” He snorts. “Never in a million years would I have pictured her with a guy like Jesse, shoveling shit and picking hay out of her hair.”

  “She seems really happy.” The frequent glances toward Jesse, the small smiles. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people so in love.

  “She is. She got pushed into that other life too young, surrounded by the wrong people. Got trapped.”

  Some could say the same is true of Luke, I guess. Not that he’s been forced into this life. Courted into it, perhaps. Shown the glamorous side, the benefits. And frankly, if I step back and let go of my moral compass and my profession, I can see how someone could be blinded by the shiny parts of this life. Especially when it’s someone you trust and feel indebted to leading you down this path. Someone who’s basically your father.

  Because even knowing what I know, how many times have I wished that I had the condo, the yacht, the car, for keeps?

  “So you knew he was abusive?”

  There’s a long pause, where he opens and closes his mouth a few times, but not saying anything. Choosing his words. “I’d see a slap, a harsh word. Figured she was just like the young, rich wives—putting up with it because of the money.” His hand squeezes mine tightly. “But, yeah, I knew.” His voice grows thick with remorse. “And I did nothing. None of us did, except for Jesse. I regret it every day.”

  There is no room in my job for emotion. And yet abuse cases are my weak spot. I’ve seen plenty of them and, while I’ve heard all the sound reasoning, I struggle to understand the women who stay, and I abhor the family and friends who suspect abuse but do nothing.

  There’s no room for that now, though. I need to coax more out of Luke, not condemn him. “Well, it must have been hard, with him being your uncle’s business partner, right?”

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “But it wasn’t just that. Viktor
Petrova was not a guy you wanted to cross.”

  Suddenly, a mess of puzzle pieces snaps together.

  Chapter 25

  ■ ■ ■

  LUKE

  The drive went by too fast. I’m not ready to drop her off yet. That’s probably why I blurt out, “So you’re coming to my place tonight, right?” the second I pull my car into her condo building driveway.

  “I am?” A smile of surprise touches her lips. Not an “I can’t.” That’s good. I guess that means she’s not sick of me yet, and she doesn’t hate me for what I admitted to her about Alex and ignoring what I knew was happening.

  I shrug. “That was the deal we made last week, right? I cook dinner for you?”

  Her head falls back with a smile as realization strikes her. “That’s right. I was hoping you forgot.”

  I chuckle. “Not a chance. I’m gonna prove you wrong.” Those sandwiches she packed for me were like nothing I’ve ever had. I was half-tempted to walk down to the food cart and force the guy behind the counter to take a bite and admit that his version is shit.

  “Okay.” She grins at me. I’d kill to know what’s going on inside her head right now. I’m just seconds away from leaning over to kiss her when she says, “Let me just grab a shower,” and jumps out of the car. I watch her walk through her doors. So beautiful, so graceful, so . . . glass. I have an hour. Enough time to go deal with this raging hard-on she’s giving me. “Follow her lead, my ass,” I mutter, repeating Jesse’s words. “She’s going to lead me into some serious pain.”

  Chapter 26

  ■ ■ ■

  CLARA

  “Well, you’re definitely making up for the slow start,” Warner mocks by way of greeting.

  “That was Viktor Petrova’s fucking wife!” I exclaim, the phone tucked under my chin as I turn the shower on. “The one Sinclair had an informant on before she went missing.”

  “Yeah, I caught that.”

  “You should see the scar on her face, Warner. It’s bad.”

  “Knife?”

  “Hard to say, but I’m guessing yeah. How she ended up on a ranch in Sisters, Oregon, though . . .” Running from her ex, likely.

  “We’re doing background checks on all of them. Alex, the sheriff, Jesse Welles. I take it the car detail is a bust?”

  “Yeah, looks like it’s all legit. I took some pics of the cars. I’ll send them your way to add to the files. I’ve got to get ready for tonight.”

  “ ’kay. Bob and Franky are on. Watch yourself. And can you try to get something useful for once?”

  “Shut up.” I smile as I hang up, strip, and climb into the shower, washing the day’s sweat and dirt from horseback riding from my body. Thinking about Luke. About his smile, his laugh, his piercing eyes, his full, plump lips . . .

  My phone starts ringing, pulling me from the shower.

  “Warner says you’re with the target again tonight?”

  “Uh, yeah . . .” I fumble with the tap and grab a towel, caught off guard by Sinclair and his abruptness. Not even a hello. “Heading over there soon.”

  “Good. I want you to push hard on the Petrova angle.”

  “You think she has intel on the ring?” I know she does, but I’m not admitting to it out loud.

  “Maybe. But I’m looking for solid leverage that we can use to make 12 flip on 24.”

  “It’s an abuse case where a dickhead got what he deserved,” I blurt out.

  “And more, I’m guessing. The property’s listed under a ‘Water Fitzergald.’ Willed to her a year ago.”

  Huh. “So, she’s using a fake name.” I guess that explains Luke’s confusion when he was introducing us.

  “That or the real Water Fitzergald is buried in a deep hole on that massive, valuable plot of land.”

  I frown. “I don’t see it.” That would mean I read her wrong. I’m never that wrong about someone.

  Sinclair chuckles and it’s not at all warm. “Well, excuse me if I’ve seen a lot more in my twenty-plus years in the Bureau than you’ve seen in your two minutes of handcuffing local crackheads,” he snaps. “Stop questioning me and start digging. I’m guessing that sheriff is culpable, too. For all we know, 12 and his friend tampered with Petrova’s car and they’re the reason he’s dead. Both of them have the know-how. If we can get 12 on a murder rap, he’ll be singing Markov’s name from the holding cell within a day.”

  Even as Sinclair talks, my head’s shaking, Alex’s words, the look in her eyes as they passed over Luke, cycling through my mind. He saved her life. In the short time that I spent with her today, my gut says she was telling the truth—that she needed to be saved.

  But, at what cost?

  Oh God, what if Sinclair’s right? Am I going to help hang a murder around Luke’s neck? No . . . I’ve met murderers. Even without proof, someone like me can see it in their eyes—the instability, the danger. There’s none of that in Luke’s eyes. I don’t believe he’s capable.

  I grit my teeth. There’s no point arguing. This call is all about posturing and personal agendas. I’m nothing but a soldier, expected to do as I’m told. This is the part about my job that I despise.

  “Okay, I’ll do what I can.”

  “No, you’ll do what you have to,” Sinclair corrects, his tone slow and clear and screaming “read between the lines.” “We’ve poured too much money and time into this case to lose it.”

  “Got it.”

  ■ ■ ■

  It’s foreign, experiencing Luke’s home as an invited guest walking through his door, instead of a lurker hiding behind a curtain. From my condo, it’s just surveillance detail on another target.

  But the moment I step through the solid wood door—my nose hit with the scent of sandalwood, my eyes admiring the mixed patterns and fabrics and perfectly positioned artwork that screams “decorator,” my ears lulled by the surround-sound rhythmic music—I feel like a switch goes off.

  The switch that says I’m on the job.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I brought him.” The second I release Stanley from his leash, his snout hits the ground and he takes off like a hound. “I felt guilty leaving him all evening after being cooped up all day.”

  “Nope. Maybe that’ll keep Licks busy.”

  I peer up to meet Luke’s eyes and boyish grin as he takes in the sheer black blouse and simple miniskirt I chose for tonight. I need to dress to keep his attention, after all. “You look nice,” he offers, his voice low and gravelly. He steps in close and I hold my breath, expecting him to lean in and kiss me.

  Hoping he does.

  But instead, he slides his hands into mine and pulls me into the kitchen, walking backward, his bare feet padding softly against the hard wood. He somehow makes a pair of dark blue jeans and plain gray T-shirt look expensive. He smells expensive, too. And irresistible, I admit, inhaling deeply.

  “So . . . what’s for dinner?” I warily eye the collection of opened cans and torn packages set out over the kitchen island. An iPad sits in its holder next to it all, open to what looks like a recipe page.

  He seizes the sides of my waist and hoists me onto a bar stool, his arm flexing beautifully. “Doesn’t matter. Tonight’s my turn to cook, so you’re going to eat whatever I make.”

  “I thought the deal was meatball sandwiches?”

  “I can’t win that, so I’ve revised our deal.”

  “With Chef Boyardee?”

  “With Chef Boyardee,” he repeats with a smirk. “Don’t worry, I’m classing it up.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” I mutter dryly, holding up the jar of pickles and ketchup.

  He ignores me, handing me a glass of red wine. “Here. Drink this and shut up while I make my specialty Italian meal.”

  “I can do that.” At twenty-six, I probably drink a tad more than I should. That’s another one of th
ose stereotypes that no cop wants to admit to but is unfortunately a real side effect of the job for many of us. “Though I may need a lot more to stomach what you’re about to serve me.”

  “Are you kidding? This is the best. I should really bottle it and sell it by the case.” I watch his back with admiration as he passes the wooden spoon through the skillet over the stove. Every appliance in here appears pristine and brand new, never used.

  “I wasn’t allowed to eat it growing up.”

  That stops him dead. “What kind of horrible parents would do that to a kid?”

  “Ones who believe in only homemade.” I chuckle. “They grew up in Italy, so that’s what they know. Old school.”

  “So . . . what, that means—”

  “No Chef Boyardee, no Kraft dinner, no Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.”

  The honest, shocked look splayed across his face makes me laugh. “I didn’t think there were people like that in this country.”

  “There are. I was a child deprived of fattening, crappy food. Such a sad life.”

  “Wow.” He shakes his head absently, checking the recipe several times and then, with the awkward movements of a person who has no clue what he’s doing in the kitchen, begins measuring out the shredded cheese and mustard. “I’m surprised, given what you said your dad does, that they wouldn’t be more progressive.”

  What my dad does.

  He means what Rain’s parents are like, and here I’ve been talking about what Clara’s parents are like.

  Shit. My heart rate spikes. Warner’s going to grill me for risking my cover when he listens to this later.

  Thankfully I’m saved from an answer. “There was this week that Alex stayed with Jesse and me after Viktor bashed her up good. We came home to dinner every night. I thought I had died, I was so happy. She’s a dynamite cook.”

  Alex. Sinclair’s words jump out at me. Begrudgingly, I ask, “So, how did she end up all the way out there?”