“Listening to what?”
“To conversations that could get us both killed if the wrong people hear them.” I head for the door, then stop with my hand on the handle. “You want to know about my gambling debts? About the bad people I owe money to? About why I really pulled away from you?”
He nods.
“Then meet me at Pier 39. The parking garage, level three. One hour.” I open the door, then look back at him one moretime. “And please trust me when I tell you that you need to cancel whatever meeting you have planned for tomorrow night. Do not fucking go.”
I’m already down the hallway when I hear him call my name, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Because if I turn around and see the confusion and hurt in his eyes, I might lose my nerve.
And then we’ll both be fucked.
The elevator ride to the parking garage feels like the longest minute of my life. In one hour, I’m going to tell the person I love that I’ve been lying to him since the day we met. That every conversation, every kiss, every moment of trust has been built on a foundation of lies.
That he’s the bait in a federal investigation, and I’m the one who stuck him on the hook by being Morrison’s plant.
My phone rings. Morrison’s number flashes across the screen. My gut tightens.
I decline the call and keep walking.
Tonight, I’m going to burn down everything I’ve spent the last two years building.
But maybe I can save the one thing that actually matters.
THIRTY
tate
The parking garageat Pier 39 is desolate. There are just a few scattered cars and the echo of my footsteps on the concrete as I walk toward level three.
I shouldn’t be here. I could be in my bed right now, getting rest before practice tomorrow. Or I could be prepping for my meeting with Petrov.
Instead I’m chasing after Zane, as fucking usual, trying to understand what the hell just happened in that office. His words bounce between my ears.
“The people you’re talking about? I know who they are.”
“I’ve met them before. Years ago, in Detroit.”
“You weren’t their first choice for this job. You weren’t even their idea.”
None of it makes sense. How would Zane know about Petrov and his consulting offer? How could he have met them before? And what did he mean about me not being their idea?
Level three is darker than the lower floors, most of the lights flickering or burned out. Zane’s truck is parked in a far corner, and he’s leaning against the hood with his hands shoved in his pockets. Even from fifty feet away, I can tell he’s wound tight and ready to snap like an overstretched rubber band.
“You came,” he says when I get close enough.
“You said people could get killed if they heard the wrong conversation. That tends to get someone’s attention.”
“Yeah.” He turns his head and gazes out toward the bay where fog is swallowing up the lights on the bridge. “You should sit down. This is going to take a while.”
I lower myself to the concrete barrier running along the edge of the garage. He does the same, leaving about three feet between us. I have the urge to pull him close. But his body language begs me not to.
“So talk.”
“Okay.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see it’s shaking slightly. “The gambling debts I told you about? They’re real. The part about my father needing expensive care? That’s real too.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to know that before I start.” He lets out a shuddering breath, his shoulders hunched. “But the people I owe money to aren’t just loan sharks or bookies. They’re part of a syndicate that fixes hockey games. Professional games. NHL and semi-pro games.”
