Page 55 of Hitch
“How do you know I was there?” I whisper.
“Why were you there?” he asks again. “You going to snitch on me?”
I clutch the flash drive in my palm, but the urge to tell him the truth takes over.
“I saw a finger in your mushroom farm,” I say quickly, the words spilling out. “I didn’t know what it was. But after the body in the back of your truck—”
“Prop.”
“Right,” I say hesitantly, “anda finger, I knew I had to do something. But I—”
Our eyes meet, and I hold my breath, expecting Duane to grab my throat and kill me right there. But there’s something else smoldering in his eyes.
Is it pride? Affection? Warmth?
How can a man this cold be warm for me?
“What was it?” I whisper. “Who put it there?”
He wipes his forehead with his palm, then starts rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, adjusting them to a higher height. The ends of his tattoos poke past the edges of the fabric, and I bite my bottom lip.
“Honestly, I don’t know who put it there,” he says. “Someone up to no good. But I’ve taken care of all the suspects.” He hooks his thumbs back into his belt loops. “Part of the business, I’m afraid.”
I press my lips into a thin line, unsure of what to say. It’s not like his explanation makes anything better. He’s not the person who put the finger there, but ‘taken care of all the suspects’ sounds like a euphemism for murdering his enemies.
“Listen, Reggie. I’m calling our arrangement done.” He tips his head toward me. “You owe me a lot of money.”
I blink at him. “For the mushrooms I gave to Michael?”
“I should’ve asked you for it the other day at the Double Take.” He rubs a hand over his forehead. “But here’s the thing. With all the sex work you’ve been doing for me, we’ll consider it even. No one owes anyone anything, all right?”
I furrow my brows together. Why is he bringing this up now?
“Are we done?” I ask.
“I’ve been doing some thinking. I can’t have extra people running around my business.”
My gut sinks. “You don’t trust me?”
His eyelids lower, but then his expression straightens again, tucking those emotions away.
“It’s a solo business,” he finally says. “Dangerous for someone like you.”
Someone like me.
That could mean that he doesn’t trust me to handle it, but a hint of a smile pulls at my lips at theotherpossible meaning. Duane may not admit it, but maybe he doesn’t want to see me get hurt. Maybe he wants to protect me.
“No more sex work,” he says. “No more drugs. You’re out of this.”
“But why the sex work too?” I ask.
“Because,Hitch,” he says, with a dose of irritation in his tone, “you seem to get a lot out of it. In fact, why should I pay for something when you’re benefiting just as much as I am?”
The two of us scrutinize each other, as if we can find the words we aren’t saying underneath it all. I laugh out of nervousness, but when I see Duane’s stoic expression, I stop.
There’s got to be something else going on here. He wants to keep having sex, but he wants me to do it out of lust. Not money.
I can understand that.
