Maybe Charlie’s a thief.

Perfect. I’ve hired an underage thief.

I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the screen for any missed calls from my private eye. Nothing. I let the phone drop back into my jeans and instinctively move to adjust myself again, silently cursing my dick for not focusing on the more pressing matter at hand.

The crunching sound of a piece of mirror glass missed in the cleanup is the only thing that warns me of Charlie’s presence. I turn to find her standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with panic as she stares at me, standing over her bed with one hand on her sheets and my other one on myself. I let go of both, but it’s not soon enough.

In seconds, the panic on her face smooths over. “What are you doing?” Her gaze shifts between my face and her bed. And my upper body, which is now bare.

And my groin.

For the first time in I don’t know how long, I feel heat burn my ears. “Nothing weird.” I think I may have just topped Rick Cassidy in terms of sleaze. Bravo, Cain. “Maybe a little weird,” I correct, having nothing better to say to offset the awkwardness.

She slowly walks over to me, stealing furtive glances at my chest. I’m used to catching women’s eyes on my body. I put several hours in at the gym each morning, so I know I’m in damn good shape—even better shape than when I was eighteen and fighting. But having Charlie’s gaze on me makes my nerve endings spark like electric circuits gone haywire. It makes me unable to think straight.

She ducks her head, but I catch the adorable smile curling her lips when she looks up again, and my shoulders sag with relief that I haven’t completely freaked her out. Holding up the black shirt that I had tucked into a bag for the rare morning of golf, she asks, “Is this good?”

“Perfect. Thanks.” Our fingertips graze when she hands it to me, stirring my blood more. I watch as she turns to walk to the kitchen, her perfect round ass swaying in those little shorts. I need to get out of here before I explode in my pants.

She bends over to pull a small bottle of bleach from under the sink. Forcing my eyes away, I slide my arms through the sleeves and yank the shirt over my head.

Charlie lets out a shriek and jumps back from the sink area, tossing a small cleaning brush away, together with the bleach.

“They like dark, damp spots,” I say softly, putting two-and-two together.

She nods and bites her bottom lip, a mixture of disgust and anger marring her beautiful face as she allows her body to shudder once. I grit my teeth against the tiny smile that threatens. Not because her situation is amusing, but because she finally reacted the way I’d expect her to. Because I finally see an expression on her face that seems unguarded and uncontrolled.

Persuasive Cain is gone. “You’re not staying in this apartment, Charlie. Not for one more night.” I slide my phone out of my pocket. “Pack your things. Now.” I can’t help the severity in my tone; it tends to escape in situations where I have to take control.

Charlie turns to regard me with a hard glare. I wonder how she’ll react to my more unpleasant side. I don’t give her a chance to argue. “This is nonnegotiable. If you want to work for me, you’re not living next door to a bunch of crackheads. I don’t want you anywhere near that shit.” I hit “call” on my phone, adding, “I know of a good place.”

Turning my back to her, I wait. Maybe she’ll launch something at my head. It wouldn’t be the first time . . .

The familiar, gruff voice answers on the third ring. “Tanner here.”

chapter ten

■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

“You drive a brand-new Sorento and you live in the slums?” Ginger’s pretty face twists up in bewilderment from my passenger side. She climbed in the second I pulled into the apartment complex parking lot, behind Cain. Her hair is styled poker-straight and smooth today, reaching all the way to her chin in multicolored stripes.

“I inherited it.” The lie slides off my tongue so easily. It’s the same lie I gave to Cain when he helped load my belongings into the back. I could tell by the blank stare that he might not buy it, but he didn’t call me out.

Thank God Sam didn’t send me here with another Volvo—this whole charade would be that much harder to sell. Then again, I imagine a Volvo wouldn’t have lasted one night in the other apartment’s building’s parking lot. The truth is I almost sold my SUV to bank the money. But that could get back to Sam through Jimmy, and it would raise questions. I figure I can get about twenty grand on its sale the second I’m ready to leave.

My eyes roll over the white-stucco apartment building in front of us. Despite the bars on the bottom-floor windows, it looks nice enough and well maintained. Nothing fancy, but hopefully not a place where I have to worry about getting shot, standing in the middle of my studio.

I think I did a pretty good job of hiding my emotions from Cain today. But, considering I carry a constant feeling of threat on my shoulders nowadays, I don’t think this was as shocking for me as it would be for someone else. Either way, I didn’t want to appear vulnerable in front of my new boss, so I did my best to focus on making light of the situation while I iced the bump on his head.

“So, you live here?”

“A bunch of us do. Me, Mercy, Hannah, China.”

“China?” I repeat, tossing a sidelong glance at Ginger. “The China?” The viper who almost made me cry last night?

She snorts. “Yeah, the one and only. Bad news is she’s a bitch. Good news is she’s fine if you get on her good side.” That’s Ginger. She’s blunt and snarky, but she always tries to keep things positive.

“Does Cain live here, too?”

“Cain?” Ginger snorts. “No way. He lives somewhere downtown. But he owns the building. Bought it two years ago.”

“He owns this building,” I repeat, my tone flat. “And four of his strip club employees live here.”

“Five, now,” Ginger corrects with a grin.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I’ll be stripping for him and living under his “roof”? If I don’t get fired for providing false references, that is. What the hell? In my haste to get away from my domineering drug-dealing stepfather, have I allowed myself to be acquired by a pimp?

Ginger seems oblivious. “I know it’s a little strange. Cain is a little strange. But you’ll be my neighbor now!” She lets out an excited squeal. “We can have coffees in the mornings with Mercy and go to the gym together. You can be my guinea pig for test recipes.” Ginger is taking culinary classes but refuses to eat anything she makes, for fear of turning into a portly chef, she says. “We can drive to work together, too! I hear you’ll be working with me every night.” With a raised brow, she adds, “That’s a lot of Ginger time for you. I hope you realize how lucky you are.”

Oh, man. Laying low is hard to do when you have people watching your every move . . . Shit . . . I can’t have anyone seeing me heading to a drop, in disguise. That’s how questions begin. I can’t have people asking questions.

None of them can ever know what I’m into.

I should have kept my roach-infested apartment, but Cain made it clear that wasn’t an option. He walked me to the superintendent and, after watching them have a heated conversation about bullet holes and appalling conditions, followed by threats about having the place condemned—I don’t know if Cain can make that happen, but he sure as hell sounded convincing—I handed in my keys and the landlord handed me back my security deposit.

I watch as Cain’s lean body slides out of his driver’s seat, with his phone to his ear. I don’t know whether to be thankful or angry with the way things played out today.