Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

Several moments passed. They sat like statues. Eventually Martin looked over at Larry, Larry looked over at Bennett, and Bennett continued to stare at Griff.

If Griff had still been a wagering man, he’d have put his money on Bennett as the enforcer of the group. Larry was the windbag, the people person, the public relations guy. Martin was the brains and the puppet master. Bennett, silent and stationary Bennett, who seemed to have ice water in his veins, was responsible for damage control.

It was Martin who finally spoke. “What makes you think…” Wheeze. “…that we’d have dealings…” Gasp. “…with a scumbag like Rodarte?”

“He told me himself. He said he’d talked to you. He passed along your message that there might be a way for me to make amends. That you might be willing to forgive and forget.”

“Forgive and forget?”

This was the first and only time Griff had actually seen Martin smile, and it made his balls contract.

“Is Rodarte delusional, or are you?” Larry asked. “After you gave the grand jury the juice on us, you think we’d ever welcome you back?” He snorted his opinion on the chances of that. “First of all, asshole, we’re not forgiving or forgetful. Number two, you’re the last person we want in our operation. We’re not slow learners. Once you screw us over, you’re screwed. Third, if one of our competitors-not that we have any that matter-takes you in, that’s good news to us. It only shows that they’re fucking ignoramuses.

“Lastly, you’re actually right about one thing. Rodarte did come sniffing around just before your release. He’s always had the mistaken idea that he’s a hotshot and that we’re impressed by him. We’re not. He’s a lowlife thug, is all.

“But, hey, we don’t want to appear unfriendly, especially to someone so inferior. So we dazzled him with bullshit and a couple shots of eighteen-year-old scotch, then sent him on his way. If he’s squeezing you, he’s doing it on his own time and for his own reasons.”

“And more power to him,” Martin wheezed.

“Amen to that,” Larry said. “More power to him. We won’t be brokenhearted the day you die, Burkett. The only reason you’re still breathing is because you deserve no better than Rodarte. We’d rather somebody of his caliber handle an asswipe like you, save us having to get our hands dirty. Now get the fuck out of here before we remember just how pissed off we really are.”

On his drive back from Las Colinas, Griff got stuck in a traffic jam behind a freeway accident that had two lanes closed. Staring into the brake lights of the car ahead of him, he ruminated over what Larry had told him. It felt like the truth. They wouldn’t mourn his passing, but if they’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

The Vista boys were scary, but Rodarte, acting on his own behalf, was even scarier. Griff wasn’t comforted by the knowledge that Rodarte was working independently.

That thought was interrupted by his cell phone’s chirp. He flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Are you free?”

HIS HEART SKIPPED. “WHEN?”

“Now.”

“I’m fifteen minutes out.” Thirty at least, but he didn’t want her to change her mind.

“I’ll see you then.”

It took five minutes for him to get past the accident; then he herded the Honda as though driving in the Le Mans and reached the house twenty-two minutes after getting her call. He went in through the unlocked front door and found her standing in the center of the living room.

She was wearing a snug white skirt and a sleeveless red top with white buttons down the front and wide straps over her shoulders. She looked great.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“I was on 114 when you called. There was an accident.”

“I didn’t give you much notice.”

He shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of the nearest chair. “How have you been?”

“Fine. What about you?”

“I’ve been okay. Airline keeping you busy?”

“Always.”

“This heat sucks.”

“I can’t remember when it last rained.”

“That time of year, I guess.”

Up to that point, they hadn’t broken eye contact. Now she did. She looked toward the window, where the louvered shutters let in only slivers of sunlight. “I asked you to meet me today so I could tell you in person.”

His stomach dropped. “You’re pregnant.”

She shook her head.

“No?” he asked, making sure.

“No.”

“I thought maybe you would be. We doubled the chances last time.”

Her eyes flicked back to him briefly, then away. “I’m not pregnant. But I…we, Foster and I, have decided to try A.I.”

His encounter with Rodarte, his meeting with the Vista boys, her call, the wild drive here, seeing her, all had combined to jumble his brain. Her words didn’t compute. He shook his head slightly. “Sorry?”

“Artificial insemination.”

“Oh. Right.” Again his stomach took a dive. “Instead of us-”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

There was a significantly long pause before she continued. “We realize the financial implications that our decision will have on you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So we’d like for you to remain the donor.” Nervously she wet her lips. “If you’re willing, that is. And if you are, and the insemination is successful, the terms of the payout will stay the same.”

He searched her face, but she avoided looking directly at him. After a moment, he went over to the sofa, sat down on the edge of it, and stared into near space, thinking what a bitch of a day this was turning out to be.

She must have taken his silence for either reluctance or indecision. She said, “You don’t have to give me your answer today. You have time to think about it. I have to set up appointments with a specialist. I’m sure there will be tests. I think I have to go on supplemental hormones. So it could be a while before we needed you. Weeks, I would guess.”

He looked over at her.

“Once the procedure is scheduled,” she went on, sounding rushed, “I’ll contact you and we’ll work out a time and place for me to pick up the specimen. It’ll have to be retrieved on the actual day. I’ll give you as much notice as I can. A day, possibly two.”

“All right.”

“Between now and then, if you decide you don’t want to…to participate, we’ll pay you five hundred thousand anyway. For the times you’ve…for your trouble.”

“Generous of you.”

“Naturally, whether you opt to continue or cancel the arrangement here and now, it goes without saying that I expect the absolute confidentiality you agreed to.”

Finally, something he wanted to address. “You don’t want anybody to know about…” He tilted his head in the direction of the bedroom. “What happened in there last time.”

“About any of it, Mr. Burkett.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t, Mrs. Speakman.”

She drew herself up straight and retrieved her handbag from an armchair. “Well, I think that covers everything. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“There’s a double entendre if I ever heard one.” He’d spoken in a mutter, but intentionally loud enough for her to hear.

Ignoring the remark, she moved toward the door. “I have to go. I have a meeting in half an hour.”

“Liar.”

She came around quickly.

“You don’t have a meeting. You’re running off.” He left the sofa and started walking toward her. “You’re scared. You don’t trust yourself to be here. Did you confess to your husband that you really got into it last time?”

“What Foster and I talk about-”

“Is that why he changed his mind about our little arrangement?”