Rake (Wolfes of Manhattan 4)

“I need a seamstress, stat!” she yelled in her raspy voice.

Candice was known as a diva, but she was always nice to us dancers. She’d started as a showgirl on the line herself. But she talked terribly to the tailors and makeup artists.

“Be with you in a minute, Ms. Hall,” the woman working on my outfit said.

“That can wait,” Candice said. “This ribbon on my sash is nearly threadbare. I want it replaced before the seven o’clock show.” Then she turned to me. “Hello…”

“Zee,” I said. “Zara Jones.”

“Yes, of course. How are you doing today?”

Loaded question, for sure, but she didn’t know it. “Fine. How are you?”

“Ugh. I’m so sick of these costumes. They may as well be second-hand. Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous?” She nodded to the garment she’d thrown at the seamstress.

What was I supposed to say? My costume was fine. But then, I wasn’t the star of the show, either. Candice was gorgeous—auburn-haired and tall with amazing hazel eyes—and talented to boot. And though I’d never been sexually attracted to women, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. She had the most gorgeous pair of breasts in the show. More importantly, she was an amazingly talented dancer and singer. She deserved her stardom, and I respected her, especially since she’d worked her way up from the chorus line.

“I need a bottle of Evian, please!” she called to anyone listening.

“I have some water.” I offered her my bottle.

“Thank you, but I only drink Evian.” She smiled. Then her lips curved slightly downward. “Are you all right? You seem a little…distracted.”

“I’m fine.” I forced a smile.

Like I said, Candice was always nice to us, but we knew she really didn’t want to hear our life stories. Not like I’d tell her mine, anyway. No one knew. Except, of course, the Wolfes.

“Ready for you, Miss Hall,” another tailor finally said.

She huffed. “It’s about time. Nice seeing you, Sara.”

“Zara,” I said, “but everyone calls me Zee.”

“Zee. That’s cute!” She waved and was on her way.

Back to my phone. Except I didn’t have any messages or emails. Not overly surprising, since I basically had no friends other than Mo and my other roommates, and we were more friends by circumstance.

Except I’d been hoping…

In the back of my mind…

That I’d have a message from Reid Wolfe.

12

Reid

Nieves ordered the Dover sole Beaujolais, the most expensive item on the menu.

Not surprising. I didn’t really care, as long as she gave me something useful. I feared, though, that the “thing she found” at Rock’s place was his gun, which wasn’t going to help me at all.

Still, it was worth a grand and an order of Dover sole to find out.

I slid an envelope containing ten crisp Benjamins toward her. She opened it and pulled out the bills.

“Really?” I said. “You’re going to count the money at the table?”

“You gotta know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em.” She winked.

“That makes no sense at all.” I shook my head. “This isn’t a game.”

“Everything’s a game.” She quickly counted out the bills and stuffed them back in the envelope. Then she stuffed the envelope into her bra.

Nice touch, though I no longer found her as attractive as I had when I’d fucked her in New York. Sure, I was going to bed her last night, but now? I was just as glad I hadn’t. She was hot, no doubt, but I had someone else on my mind.

I took a drink of my water to soothe the dryness in my mouth. Too much drinking last night. Then I lifted my eyebrows, saying nothing.

“You have to ask,” she said.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“If you want to know what I know, you have to ask.”

“I just paid you.”

“Pretty please?”

“Fuck it all.” I raked my hand through my hair. “Tell me, Nieves. What did you find at Rock’s place that you never told him about?”

She smiled. “You think I’m going to say his gun, don’t you?”

“I think I don’t have a clue what you’re going to say, and I wish you’d end the suspense.”

“I did see his gun,” she said, “but I didn’t take it.”

“Fine. What did you take, then?”

“So, it wasn’t so much that I took something as much as it was that I erased something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Rock was kind of old-school,” she said. “He still had an answering machine and insisted on using it instead of the voicemail on his phone.”

Somehow, that didn’t surprise me. My oldest brother had done everything he could to escape his upbringing. Going old-school fit right into that mold. “So you heard a message and erased it.”

“Yes.”

“What did the message say?”

“You should already know.”

I let out a heavy sigh and rubbed my forehead. “You’re giving me a migraine, Nieves. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she said, “that the message I intercepted was from you.”