Page 36 of Faded Rhythm

He raises an eyebrow. “Dime?”

“Yeah. It’s funny. I never really trusted him all that much. It wasn’t anything he did. It was just his vibe. He has a darknessabout him.” My eyes narrow. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in the middle of all this.”

King stands and stretches, his shirt rising just enough to reveal the taut lines of his abdomen.

"I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, low and gritty. “We’re running out of time before he shows up at your sister’s place.”

“I know.”

“Then I need your head in the game. Think hard. Take notes if you have to.”

I nod, but my head is everywhere elsebutthe game. As soon as the water starts running, I go to the minibar and pour myself a drink. Vodka tonic. Tastes sharp and bitter, but it takes the edge off of my life.

I call and say goodnight to my girls, dodging their questions as best I can. I’m just hanging up when I hear it…a ding! from King’s laptop.

I glance over at it, then the bathroom door. In a split second, I decide to be nosy. It’s my life on the line, after all.

A small message box lights up the corner of the screen. The title I KNEW YOU WERE COMPROMISED

I stare at it, tempted to click and afraid of what I might find if I do—not to mention what King might do if he finds out.

I’m still debating when the water shuts off. I scurry back to the bed and try to act cool. I’m finishing my cocktail when the bathroom door opens. Steam rushes out, then King walks through the cloud like something out of a movie.

He’s still glistening with moisture, a white towel wrapped low around his waist. I don’t even pretend I’m not staring with my mouth open. He looks like he’s carved out of stone, all hard muscle, tight lines, and controlled swagger.

But there’s something else.

In the midst of all the six foot two perfection, there are imperfections. Jagged scars, slashing this way and that acrosshis muscular chest. Most are puckered and pale, but some are red and angry.

My chest tightens as I wonder who did that to him.

He doesn’t even look at me. He grabs his bag and heads back into the bathroom, leaving me on the bed catching my breath.

When he returns, he’s dressed in a plain black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. The softness of the fabric contrasts with the hard lines of his frame. It makes him look more human, less machine.

He sits at the desk and opens the message. His eyes scan it, then he looks at me.

“You might wanna see this for yourself.”

I rise and move to him. This time, when I wedge myself beside him in the chair, it feels natural for us to touch. I breathe in the scent of his clean skin, detecting the faint smell of citrus.

The screen shows documents. Royalty statements, wire transfers, tax records. Many with Clayton Wilson’s name all over them—Redd Clay, my father’s biggest artist. The Tupac of the south.

“I don’t understand,” I mumble. “Why would any of this matter now? Why keep this when Dime sold the label?”

“When was this?”

I think for a moment. “It’s gotta be eleven years now. My daddy died twelve years ago.”

King points to a number on the screen. “Redd Clay was a cash cow, Sable. Look right there. Those wire transfers? The amounts are way higher than reported. It looks like some are coming from shell companies. I bet if I looked them up, they wouldn’t trace back to anybody.”

He turns his head to look at me, his eyes serious. “Looks like money laundering to me.”

I blink. “Like…mafia?”

He shrugs. “Mafia. Cartels. Arms dealers. Who knows? Anybody with dirty money.”

It’s still not clicking for me.

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