“It’s okay,” Mac soothes me, squeezing my neck and reminding me that I’m wearing his collar. He’s there to protect me. “Now. Where do we start?”
“Here,” I point to the rug and Mac frowns.
If memory serves, the room underneath this one is for storage, and has a lower ceiling because of the safe hidden here. If you don’t know where to look, it’s impossible to find. But I know where to look. Lifting the corner of the rug, I reveal a shiny metal ring embedded in the dark wood floor.
With some effort, I haul the section of flooring up and kneel beside the circular lock. “Hopefully he hasn’t changed the combination.”
“You know it?” Mac asks, surprise in his voice for once. “Did he tell you?”
“Ha, no. I got bored one summer when he wasn’t around to micromanage me, and had been watching a lot of heist movies. I listened for the clicks until I got it right.”
Going quiet, I twist slowly to the left until I hear the tumblers move into place, letting out a relieved breath when I realize it is still the same. I move faster after that, following the four turns left, three turns right, two turns left, one turn right pattern. It’s harder than the small locks with three numbers you can buy at any store, but he hasn’t changed the combination in the decade since I figured it out.
“Yes,” I whispered my success when the final tumblers are in place. “We’re in.”
“Who’s the boy scout now?”
“Still you, Sir,” I quip, lugging the heavy door open with his help.
Papers, both of the monetary and legal variety, are stacked inside along with guns and boxes I know contain jewelry. I was never stupid enough to steal from my father, not after he made me watch the torture and murder of a man who worked for him and dared to take some cash lying around.
“Anything of value to our cause?” Mac asks, kneeling beside to look without touching.
Reaching in for the spiral notebook on top of a hand gun, I pull out the ledger. “This will be my dad’s records up to the last time he was here. I don’t know what he buys and sells, but he tracks it religiously. It’s the only time I see him work that isn’t barking orders.”
Mac takes it from me and flips the cover open. “You don’t know what your father does for his money?”
“No,” I reply, but I can see the disbelief on his face after I close the safe and right the carpet. “He decided when I was thirteen that I wasn’t good enough to learn his business. Right around the first time he caught me kissing a boy.”
“The first time?” Mac asked, offering me a hand up. “You make it a habit to kiss random guys?”
“Kissing guys is one of my favorite pastimes.” Shrugging, I move to the desk to see if anything was left in the drawers. “You should try it sometime.”
Mac’s silence draws my attention and I find him giving me an odd look. “Maybe I will.”
A twinge of jealousy hits me squarely in the gut. I’m about to tell him I’m right here if he wants to kiss someone, when we hear footsteps in the hall. “Shit.”
Chapter eighteen
Mac
Anewguardshowsupright as E and I slip out of his dad’s office, bringing the count to four. Sliding the ledger into the back waistband of my pants, I cover it with my jacket and stand beside E until the guard stops, his eyes moving from us to the now-closed office door.
He’s mustachioed, with hair that’s more salt the pepper. Unlike the other guards, he’s older than me, so I assume he knows E, which he confirms when he asks, “¿Qué haces, Señor Miller?”
“We’re going to my room,” E starts in English but then switches to Spanish and I lose the plot. He’s gesturing towards the stairs and smiling, so I don’t interrupt in case it’s working to get us home free. “¿Cinco minutos?”
The guy narrows his eyes but then he smiles, “Cinco minutos, no mas.”
“Gracias,” E smiles back at the man and adds a few words as he takes my hand and moves us towards the employee stairs.
When we’re on the third floor again, I ask, “What did youtell him?”
E opens the door where we were first dropped off and walks inside. “I told Jose I had mojitos with my boyfriend and wanted to show him where I grew up, but hadn’t shown you my room yet because I got turned around.”
“So I’m your boyfriend and you're drunk?” I clarify, leaning on the doorframe to keep an eye on the hall as E moves into the room. “And is there anything important for you to show your ‘boyfriend’ in your room?”
“Not really,” E shrugs. “Dad didn’t believe in sentimental attachments.”