Betrayed (Dark Desires 2)

I asked, “Why aren’t they in jail?”

“Eddie has been in jail on and off for years,” he said. “But it’s not so easy to catch and convict guys like this. Especially Rick Wright. He’s a smart guy, just working the wrong side of the law.”

I folded my hands together and rested my chin on them. “So, the authorities think these Wright Brothers killed the guy behind the counter because he was talking to the police, and Brent just happened to get in the way.”

He gave me sad look and shrugged his bushy eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am, apparently so. I’m afraid your fiancé was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I took a deep breath and held it for a moment. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t going to cry. My heart was beating at a normal rhythm. All the crying was behind me now. I just wanted to know everything he had to say about the men I was going to kill.

“Tell me everything you now about the Wright Brothers.”

He stared into my eyes for a moment. “Miss Duval, if you’re thinking about doing something rash, I have to recommend that you get such thoughts out of your head. These are not men you want to me

ss with.”

I set the three hundred dollars on the table, then reached into my purse and brought out five more bills. I counted the money out in front of him, then sat back with my arms folded over my breasts.

He stared at the money for a moment, then blew out a long breath and scooped it up.

“Give me your email address,” he said. “I’ll forward you everything I know.”

SANDY

I gave Mr. Beamon my email address and left him to count his money and drink his coffee. It was a warm summer’s day. Too bad I couldn’t enjoy it.

I slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses as I walked into the parking lot toward my car (yes, I’m still driving my decrepit Taurus for now). The door opened with a squeak and I started to get in, but something made me look back toward the strip mall.

There was a hair salon two doors down from the coffee shop, Glamor Cuts, right next to a jewelry store that had a crown on the sign. I stared at the sign for a moment, my eyes waiting for my brain to tell my feet what to do.

“Yes,” I said, closing the car door and locking it with the key since the electronic fob thingy hadn’t worked in years. I went inside the hair salon and told the girl behind the counter what I wanted. She asked if I was sure. I said I wouldn’t have asked for it if I wasn’t sure.

I’d worn my blond hair long my entire life, usually pulled back into a tight ponytail or blown out to cascade over my shoulders. For my wedding, I was going to do long braids and have them pinned into swirls atop my head.

My hair was long and blonde and in a tight ponytail when I went into Glamor Cuts.

An hour later, I emerged with jet-black hair cut into a messy shag that barely reached my collar.

I’d had my eyebrows dyed the same color as my hair.

I got in the car and adjusted the rearview mirror to look at myself. I barely recognized the girl staring back at me.

That was a good thing because she would not have been able to handle what I was about to do.

RICK

One of my legitimate businesses, at least according to the IRS, was a dive bar tucked in an alley off 8th Street called Dick’s Place. I’d bought the place from a guy named Dick (duh) three years ago and had never bothered to change the buzzing neon sign that hung over the front door.

Dick’s was in a rough part of town, one of those dark, musky places with low lighting, a lone pool table that leaned to one corner, and a dartboard with three darts with broken tips. It was the kind of place upstanding citizens wouldn’t dare set foot in for fear of getting their asses kicked or catching some disease from a dirty glass.

That said, Dick’s did a steady business, catering to the underbelly of society: low-life’s, crackheads, and drunks, worn out hookers and johns, petty criminals and wannabe gangsters.

Dick’s did not discriminate. If you had money to spend, we had watered-down shots and beer to serve.

Dick’s also had a strict no-bullshit policy.

Start any kind of bullshit inside Dick’s and you had to answer to me, and nobody wanted to do that; at least nobody who knew me.

I typically held court with my crew at Dick’s in a little curtained-off back room that had just enough space for a round table and six chairs.