to ignore the overwhelming presence of this man. “Congratulations, Mr. Bergeron. You’re officially the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”
“I’m honored.”
Teeth grinding, I storm my way out of the building, but not before I catch a quick glimpse of him setting a stack of cash down. A stack that looks to be more than five hundred, unless those are all one-dollar bills. Still too angry to care at the moment, I frown and keep on, hands flexing and balling with the urge to punch that smug smile right off his too handsome face.
After making my way across the street, just missing a passing car that blares its horn, I hop into my truck and pound my fist against the steering wheel. What the hell is it with this guy! And why do I turn into a walking sensory receptacle every time he’s in the room?
In the rearview mirror, I catch a flash of black and duck down in my seat, shifting my attention to the side mirror, where I see him walk out of the gun shop.
Carrying my bow.
Yes, I’m grateful for two hundred, but five hundred would’ve let me opt for something other than gas station groceries and fast food. The jerk could’ve at least waited until I left.
The way he strides up to a sleek, black truck with the slick grace of a shark makes me want to scratch my own eyeballs out. Hot guys piss me off.
He pulls out of the parking lot, and after giving him a slight lead, I follow after him, suddenly curious to know what this man does when he’s not stealing weapons from unsuspecting women.
Stop number two is a laundromat a few miles up the street from the gun shop. When he exits his vehicle again, I notice the same black bag strapped across his chest. The one from which he pulled that stack of cash. Parked in a McDonald’s across the street, I ignore the smell of stale fries, trying to see past all the signs plastered to the front windows of the laundromat, but every inch of real estate on the glass is used up to advertise the price of every known article of clothing. Minutes later, he exits. Carrying the bag.
The third stop is a liquor store at the south end of the island, and once again, I turn into a beaten up parking lot kitty corner from the place. The building looks to be some kind of Christian supply store, called Jesus, Books & Gifts. Another day, and I might’ve investigated what constituted Jesus in the store, but for now, I ignore my curiosity to watch the conniving shark make his way into yet another shop, carrying that black bag. Once again, a few minutes pass, and he exits.
What do a gun shop, a laundromat, and a liquor store all have in common? It almost sounds like a bad joke. The question swirls inside my head, while he keeps on, past his truck, toward a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on the corner.
Cash. They all operate on cash. Which would also include his bar.
Money laundering, I’ll bet. One of the guys Russ used to hang out with at the bar, a guy I used to call Uncle Steve, even though he wasn’t my real uncle, once gave me a very confusing drunken explanation of it. The gist of it was, turning dirty cash to clean cash in a way that wouldn’t flag the IRS. Shell companies were one of the methods.
Swiping up my camera from the back seat, I snap a couple of shots of him before he enters the coffee shop, making sure to zoom in on the bag in a few of them. I don’t know why, except a part of me feels like I should document it. Mostly, I just think it’s shitty that the guy is so dishonest, but also, way to put his employees at risk. Once he’s stepped inside, I flip through the pictures. With his long strides and that wickedly sharp jawline, the guy reminds me of something out of a magazine. These shots could’ve been taken on the busy streets of New York and he’d have fit right in. It’s nauseating how incredibly handsome the man is.
I zoom in on his profile in one of the images, mesmerized for a moment.
The knock on my window jerks my muscles, and I drop the camera into my lap. Gaze snapping toward the passenger seat, I let out a gasp, my heart leaping up into my