7 Brides for 7 Bodies (17 page)

“I think Hannah is going to break up with me,” he blurted.

Wesley sagged. “You dragged me out of bed early to talk about your love life?”

“I’m starting to think she only started seeing me so I would pay to finish the tattoo on her back.”

“Well, that was kind of the deal, wasn’t it?”

“At first, maybe. Now it’s turned into something more for me...but not for her, apparently.”

“Is that what Hannah said?”

“No. She doesn’t talk much, you know, except to yell at me. But now she doesn’t even do that.”

“You’re upset because she doesn’t yell anymore?”

“Yelling means the person cares, man. Like my dad, who screams at me until his face is purple. It’s because he cares.”

“O...kay.”

Chance pulled his hand down his face. “I feel like she’s hiding something from me.”

“What, like another guy?”

“I don’t know, but something.”

A harried waitress came by to pour coffee in their cups and take orders for tall stacks.

When she left, to Wesley’s horror, Chance teared up. “Hannah didn’t come home last night.”

“Chill, dude—she probably worked late and went back to her place.”

He blinked. “Do you know where that is?”

“No. She’s never told you?”

Chance was morose. “No.”

“Have you tried calling her?”

“Only about a hundred times.”

“Stalker, much? Did you two have an argument?”

“Nah. I thought things were good. I was even thinking about canceling my account with Blackbook.”

“Wow, cancel your prostitute service? That’s...romantic.”

“I know. I’ve had that account since I was fourteen. But the last time a girl came by, all I could think about was Hannah, couldn’t even get it up. Tish and I played Candy Crush all night.”

Wes nodded. He’d once shouted Meg’s name when he was banging Liz, but Liz had been cool about it. If he ever got the chance to sleep with Meg, though, he doubted he’d be thinking about anyone else.

Not that he was ever going to get the chance to sleep with Meg.

“But when I told Hannah about the service, she got mad.”

“Dude, you told her you have a prostitute service? Are you nuts?”

“She already knew about it—that’s not what made her mad. She got mad when I said I was going to cancel. Said I was ‘crowding’ her—what the hell does that mean? Should I buy a bigger bed?”

Wes slurped his hot coffee. “I think she means you’re getting too serious.”

“Isn’t that what chicks want?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, man. I got women problems you don’t even want to know about.”

“You’re banging your lawyer, and you got that little piece you work with on the line. What’s the problem?”

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me, bro. Might make me feel better.”

Wes shook his head. “I can’t say.”

“Fuck, now you have to tell me. It’s not as if you got one of ’em knocked up.” Chance snorted at his own joke.

Wes felt his face drain of blood, and Chance must have noticed, too.

“Oh, fuck—one of ’em is knocked up?”

“You can’t tell a soul, man.”

Chance made a solemn X over his chest with his finger. “I’m as silent as the grave. Which one?”

“Liz. I, uh...haven’t been with Meg.”

“Liz is the attorney?”

“Right.”

“Shit. Is she gonna keep it?”

“Yeah, she’s old, like almost forty, so she’s afraid this is her only chance for a kid.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Wes lifted his hands. “Whatever Liz needs me to do. I don’t want the kid growing up without a dad like I—” He broke off, then took a quick drink from his cup and burned his mouth.

Chance nodded. “Hannah told me you haven’t talked to your old man yet.”

“No. Feds got him all tangled up.”

“But at least you have good news for him—he’s going to be a grandfather.”

Wes gave a nervous laugh. “I’m not sure he’s going to be happy about it.”

“You don’t think?”

“Liz used to be his mistress.”

Chance did the math in his head—slowly. “Wow, that’s...wait—what is that?”

“Messed up,” Wes supplied.

“And what about the dish you work with?”

“That’s history as soon as I tell her about the baby.”

“So why don’t you sleep with her first?”

Wes frowned. “That’s not an option.”

“Hey, it’s not like Liz is going to want to have sex with you now that she’s pregnant.”

That was probably true. This situation just kept getting worse.

“Actually, though, you being a dad is kind of cool.”

Wes blinked. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I can see a mini Wes dude running around. You can teach him to ride a bike and shit.”

Wes nodded. “I can do that.” He smiled. “I’m going to be a dad.”

Chance reached over and thumped him on the shoulder. “Yes you are. Just don’t fuck it up like our dads did.”

Wes’s smile wavered. “I’ll...try not to.”

“Are you going to get a real job, man?”

“Huh?”

“Kids are expensive.”

“Liz makes good money.”

“What if she decides she wants to be a full-time mom? And what if she has twins?”

“T-twins?”

“Yeah, I heard on TV that older women are more likely to pop them out two and three at a time.”

Wes’s stomach cramped. “No kidding?”

“Does your sister know?”

“No. And she already hates Liz.”

Chance guffawed. “Man, Carlotta’s going to stroke out.”

Wes swallowed the bile that had backed up in his mouth. “Tell me about it.”

Chance’s phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket, then grinned. “It’s Hannah.” He brought the phone up to his mouth. “Hey, baby.”

Wes cringed at the moony tone of his buddy’s voice...and wondered if he sounded like that when he talked to Meg.

“I’m on my way!” Chance stowed the phone and pushed to this feet. “She has a catering gig today, but she’s going to stop by the apartment first to get some of this.” He reached down and cupped his balls through his jeans to jostle his manhood.

Wes winced. “What about your food?”

Chance tossed a few bills on the table. “You can have mine. Thanks for cheering me up, bro. Next to your problems, I’m good. See ya.”

Wes watched his friend lope away, feeling like he’d been dive-bombed.

His second cell phone rang—the one dedicated to Mouse and all related loan shark activities. He connected the call. “Yeah?”

“Hey, Little Man, I got that information you asked for.”

Wes’s pulse spiked. “Your buddies talked to my dad?”

“Not exactly. He’s in the shoe.”

“The shoe?”

“Security Housing Unit. Your dad’s in solitary, only comes out to go to the mess hall.”

“What did he do to get put in solitary confinement?”

“Don’t know. My friends tried to talk to him, but he wasn’t interested in being friendly.”

Wes wet his lips. “Did they tell him they were asking for me?”

A couple seconds’ of silence passed, then Mouse said, “Yeah. He said all the more reason for him not to talk.”

Hurt boomeranged through his chest.

“Sorry, Little Man. I know it’s not the news you wanted, but at least you know your old man is okay.”

“Right,” Wes managed, hating the emotion vibrating in his voice. “Thanks anyway, Mouse.”

He ended the call before he started crying like a little girl. Randolph had shut him down—apparently he had no intention of communicating with his son.

The waitress arrived and set plate after loaded plate on the table. Wes stared at the piles of fluffy white pancakes and the heaps of bacon, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick up his fork. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.

Chapter Seventeen

“I’M GOING TO KILL HIM,” Edward King said through clenched teeth.

Carlotta rolled her eyes as she booted up the computer kiosk in the
Your Perfect Man
booth. “You’re not going to kill Jarold Jett. What happened?”

“He was supposed to judge student designs last night at a televised competition, and he was a no-show. I thought his assistant was going to come unglued.”

“She made it in, huh?”

“I guess so...although last night the poor girl seemed ready to board a plane and hightail it back to New York.”

“Did the competition take place anyway?”

“I stepped in to cover for Jarold, but those poor kids were devastated, thought they were going to meet a celebrity.”

Carlotta gave his arm a pat. “I’m sure they were equally impressed by your expertise.”

“It’s true I know more about fashion than that lout,” Edward said, softening under her praise. “And between us, I’ve heard his name recognition is slipping. But still, a commitment is a commitment.”

“Jarold must’ve had a good reason for missing the event.”

Edward’s mouth flattened. “According to Twitter, he was hanging out at the Clermont Lounge.”

She cringed. The city’s oldest strip club on Ponce de Leon Avenue was known for its kitschy atmosphere and unorthodox dancers—it was more of a tourist attraction for both sexes than a place where men got into trouble, but it wasn’t exactly a classy alibi.

“Speak of the devil,” Edward said loudly.

Carlotta turned to see Jarold Jett moving their way, with a harried-looking young woman trotting next to him and an irritable-looking Jack Terry bringing up the rear.

Jarold glared at Edward. “I heard that.”

Edward glared back. “I meant for you to. I’m sure Nia told you I had to make your excuses last night to a very disappointed group of students.”

The slender dark-haired woman—the long-suffering Nia, Carlotta presumed—flushed deep red and glanced at Jarold with something akin to fear. “I didn’t—”

“You should be thanking me,” Jarold cut in, wagging a finger at Edward. “That competition was good exposure for a patternmaker.”

Edward shook his head. “You’re going to get your comeuppance someday, Jarold. And I hope I’m there to see it.” He stalked off in one direction, and Jarold stalked off in the opposite direction.

Jack stifled a yawn. “This is the longest assignment of my career.”

She laughed. “Just four more days. Did the ladies at the Clermont Lounge keep you up late?”

Jack frowned. “I would’ve rather been home in bed.”

“You’re losing your edge, Jack.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, pulling a hand down his weary face. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Better, thanks. Guess where I was last night?”

“Do I want to know?”

“Picking up a body, with Coop.”

He frowned harder. “Your shoulder must be a lot better.”

“Hannah was with me. But get this—the victim died under suspicious circumstances and was also a groom.”

He squinted. “So?”

“Like Jeremy Atwater, the young man who collapsed on the runway.”

He held up his hand. “Stop. I see where this is going.”

“But doesn’t that seem curious to you?”

“
No.
I’m leaving now.”

“But Jack—”

“Goodbye, Carlotta.”

“By the way, I know you put a guy next door to watch me.”

He stopped. “What?”

“The guy in the house next to me and Wes—law-enforcement build, has a camera in the window pointed toward the townhouse?”

He threw up his hands as if to deflect responsibility. “Sounds like your run-of-the-mill voyeur. Keep your clothes on.” Then he shrugged. “Or don’t.” He turned and walked after Jarold Jett’s entourage.

Carlotta glared after Jack, wishing she could put her finger on what was different about him, something that went beyond a lack of sleep and their pact to stay away from each other...oh, and his general dismissal of any crime theory she had.

He seemed almost...
defeated
. She’d been so consumed with how her father’s return had affected her and Wes, she hadn’t considered how frustrated Jack must be to have finally collared Randolph Wren—the “get” of a career—only to be banished from the case and sent to stand in the corner.

Or perhaps he was still suffering from the loss of Maria?

Something
was eating at him.

Her mind bounced back to the man living next door...something smelled, and it wasn’t fragrant.

When an idea popped into her head, she turned to the computer kiosk and looked up a business listing. As she punched the number into her phone, she wondered what kind of reception she might get on the other end.

“Sanders Real Estate Agency,” a young woman’s voice chirped, “home of Sammy “Sold” Sanders. How can I help you?”

Carlotta rolled her eyes at the cheesy moniker. “Yes, is Sammy available?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Carlotta Wren. Please tell her I’m a friend of Jolie Goodman Underwood.”

“One moment, please.”

Sammy might not be pleased to hear from one of the women who had crashed her upscale pajama party and subsequently been arrested when another unwanted guest—a dead body—had been uncovered during the festivities, but she might be intrigued enough to take Carlotta’s phone call.

“Hold on,” the woman said. “I’m transferring you to Sammy’s cell.”

Bingo.

The phone clicked. “Hello, Carlotta. What a surprise. I’ve been seeing your name in the papers a lot lately.” The woman’s voice was well modulated, a tad suspicious, but with enough diplomacy to insure she’d get any commissions Carlotta might toss her way.

“Hi, Sammy. How’s business?”

“Fabulous. I’ve been the number one agent in Buckhead for three years running. What can I do for you, Carlotta?”

“Actually, I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor?” the woman repeated, with a hint of indignation.

“In return for something I think will be of value to you.”

“Which is?”

“A sixty percent off coupon on any item at Neiman Marcus.”

“I’m listening. But if it has anything to do with dead bodies, I’m out.”

Carlotta smiled into the phone. “I need to know everything you can tell me about the owner of the house next to mine.”