Or maybe he won’t.
I would’ve let this go, Reid. I would’ve taken my beating and hoped for a better result the next time a slot opened. But you had to goad me, didn’t you?
I mean, I try to be reasonable. But sometimes, I let things bother me more than they should.
38
Christian
“Let’s go out,” Gavin says, when he shows up at my apartment, making a beeline for my booze in the kitchen. “Let’s get some tickets to the Cubs then hit some clubs.” He seems to like that idea, humming “Cubs and clubs, Cubs and clubs,” as he pours himself a bourbon.
“Not sure I’m up for it,” I say.
“Not up for the Cubbies? Okay, just the clubs, then. We’ll grab a steak and then hit the West Loop.”
I moan.
“The Triangle, then,” he says. “Maybe Tavern.”
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know? It’s Friday night. What, you wanna stay home?”
“Maybe. I’m tired.”
He shakes his head. “No, no, no. Nicky isn’t tired on Friday night. Nicky gets loaded with his buddy Gavin, then he takes his pick of fillies home—”
“I just don’t feel good, G. Sue me.”
Gavin takes a long sip of the bourbon and eyeballs me. With a wag of a finger, he says, “How’s it going with Number 7?”
“Good. All good. Got her right where I want her.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, we can have a drink or two here before we go,” he says. “Tell me about her.”
“That’s not the deal.”
“Well, not her name, but I mean, y’know, generally. I mean, what’s her story?”
I shrug. “Not much of a story. She was a runaway, best I can tell.”
That surprises him. It surprised me, too, when I looked her up, but then it didn’t. The more time I spend with Vicky, the more I see that she’s a loner, a fighter. Most of the women I target—all the six of the previous targets, in fact—had pretty normal, privileged lives. None of them had lives that remotely resembled mine.
“Like she ran away from home when she was a kid?” Gavin says. “What’d she do?”
“I don’t know. She won’t talk about her past. Nothing online I can find.”
“You know what she did,” says Gavin, pouring himself a second bourbon.
“I don’t.”
“What else would she do? She runs away from home, has to fend for herself?”
“Shut up, G.”
“She was a hooker, Nicky. Or a porn actress. Something in the sex trade. She had to be.”
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Does she fuck like a hooker?”
“I said shut up!” I throw down the bottle of water, the top coming off, the water splashing everywhere.
“Jesus.” Gavin steps back. “What the fuck, pal?”
I grab a towel and mop up the water on the floor. Meanwhile, Gavin goes into the living room and flips on the flat-screen TV.
I toss the wet rag in the sink, pour myself a bourbon, and walk out onto the patio. The nightlife around here is as full throttle as the city gets. I love it here. I always figured I’d end up in Chicago, after I’d collected enough from my scams, if things worked out that way. But I’ve always been prepared to leave the country, if that’s what it takes to stay safe. I think I’ve done everything I need to do to stay ahead of the law. Most of these women don’t even bother to chase me after I take them for everything, the sheer embarrassment of what they’d have to admit, and their ex-husbands couldn’t give one shit about them, after they cheated and left them for another man and took lump-sum divorce settlements.
And what could they do, even if they tracked me down? I was their paramour, their dirty hidden secret, so it’s not like their friends met me or anything. And I used a different alias every time—Collin Daniels, Richard Nantz, David Jenner—so all I have to do is deny, deny, deny. Nope, that’s not me. What money? They can’t trace anything. They can’t prove anything.
Vicky? I’m not sure what she’ll do after I take her money. She’s basically going to take her husband for everything, and I’m going to take her for everything. How far can she complain? Can a thief complain about another thief? Oh, probably so. She might try. Vicky seems like the type who doesn’t let go of a grudge. But as I keep telling myself, I don’t really know her.