Black Jack (Advantage Play #5) - Kelsie Rae Page 0,55

in five.”

“Okay.”

After another quick peck to my cheek, he disappears from my room, and I’m left with a smile. One that seems to happen a lot when he’s around.

But then it’s replaced with a frown because I know it won’t last. And it’ll be all my fault when it reaches its expiration date.

23

Jack

Embry: We need to talk. Meet me at Dottie’s in 30. Come alone.

The foreboding anticipation filters through my veins as I scan the message for the hundredth time. We need to talk, never sounds good. Whether it’s from a previous boss, your current employer, a doctor, or your significant other, it doesn’t exactly bode well.

Yet, here I am. Parked outside the ’50s diner while staring at the entrance like it belongs to a haunted house instead of a place that sells pancakes and French toast. Twisting the wedding ring on my left hand, I get out of my car then head inside Dottie’s. I’ve only been here once before, though it feels like a lifetime ago. The owner is a redheaded Southern woman with short, curly hair and an attitude that’s about as spicy as cayenne pepper. I just hope she doesn’t remember me.

The last time I was here, I almost got into a fistfight with Kingston. Ace had begged me to meet her yet somehow failed to mention she’d be bringing along her boyfriend-slash-mob boss whom I’d been following because of his connection to Burlone Allegretti. He was one of the most renowned human traffickers before Kingston murdered him and I helped cover it up.

Who would’ve thought we’d end up partnering together to bring the bastard down after nearly throwing punches over pancakes and eggs?

A little bell dings above the door as I push it open. Dottie approaches with a dirty rag in hand almost instantly.

“Hey, stranger. Ace ain’t here.”

So much for her not remembering me.

I start, “Yeah, I know––”

“Why don’t ya grab yourself a seat. I’ll be with ya in a minute,” she tells me.

“I’m actually looking for someone––”

“Guy in a suit?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s right back there, sugar.” She points to a corner booth in the back of the diner where Embry is sitting with his head down and a cup of coffee in his hands. He looks…numb. The realization only adds fuel to the flames of anxiety that are licking at my insides.

“You gonna want coffee?” Dottie asks.

“No, thank you.”

“Anything to eat?”

I cringe. “Probably not this time. Sorry.”

“Figured. Play nice, ya hear?” she warns me, her drawn-on eyebrow arching toward her hairline.

“I will,” I grumble. “Thanks, Dottie.”

“Sure thing.”

When I reach Embry’s table, I rock back on my heels and tuck my hands into my front pockets, but he doesn’t even acknowledge me. He’s too lost in his own head. There’s a manilla envelope resting next to his untouched cup of coffee, and it only seems to stir my curiosity.

“Hey,” I mutter.

His neck snaps up before his weary gaze meets mine. “Connelly. Take a seat.”

With a deep breath, I slide into the booth across from him and rest my elbows on the table between us. “You said you wanted to talk?”

“I thought it would be best if we met in person. You hungry?” He nudges the unopened menu a few inches toward me, but I shake my head.

“No, thanks.”

“Alright then.” Lifting the mug of coffee to his mouth, he takes a sip then sets it back down. “How was the wedding?”

“It was good. Great, actually,” I correct myself. “I’m sorry we didn’t invite you––”

He waves me off. “We’ve already discussed it.”

“And yet, you’re bringing it up,” I counter before motioning to the manilla envelope that’s taunting me. “What’s in it?”

Reaching for the envelope, he taps his fingers against the top of it before dragging it another inch closer to him. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Then let’s talk. What’s going on?”

“As you know, we searched Reed’s house for evidence in regards to his connection to the Allegretti family.”

“So I’d heard. Did you find anything?”

“Not much. Other than Dominic’s testimony and the evidence he voluntarily turned in, we’re in the dark.”

My jaw tightens. “Great.”

“Listen, there’s something we found.”

“And?”

“And I think you have a right to know about it.” He nudges the manilla folder toward me but doesn’t lift his hand. It’s like he’s debating whether or not this is a good idea, and it only fuels my curiosity.

Anxious, I slide it from beneath his fingertips, then open it. Several photographs are tucked inside, and I start to take them out before deciding against it