Page 59 of Sinful Promise
I follow his gaze and narrow my eyes in question. “Huh?”
Instead of giving me a verbal answer, he lifts his hand and catches the attention of a trio of men.
They’re young. Closer to Cato’s age than my own. But one of them, the front runner, nods his acknowledgment, then leaving the other two behind, he makes his way across the club, flirting with women as he passes.
He can’t possibly be a day over twenty-one. And if I were to find out his ID was fake, I wouldn’t be able to muster even an iota of surprise. He’s not all that tall—maybe five-nine—and on the skinnier side of the spectrum. His clothes are baggy, to make him appear bigger, but it doesn’t take a genius to see his wiry frame beneath the fabric. His skinny arms. His overcompensating swagger and flirty smirk.
As he stops on the other side of our table and sets a half-consumed beer down by his hand, he grins for us, and shows off a crooked canine tooth that instantly draws my eyes.
He looks Fletch up and down, then he peeks my way and does the same to me. But slower. More thorough.
Did heactuallywitness something the other night? Was he there when Fentone died?
“I’m Benji.” He doesn’t offer his hand for me to shake; though, knowing this club’s nasty history, I don’t feel all that sad about it. “You’re Fletcher and Malone?”
“I’m Malone.”
I catalogue his every feature. The crooked nose that matches his crooked teeth. His muddy brown eyes, and overlarge ears. He wears his hair shaved on the sides but long on top, and uses excessive amounts of hairspray to keep the longer locks styled up in a weird mohawk.
Finally, I nod to my left. “He’s Fletch. I heard you have something to tell us.”
Chuckling, he glances to my partner. “And I heard money is typically exchanged at the beginning of these discussions. Ya know, to keep everyone honest.”
“You were misinformed.” I set my elbows on the table and purse my lips. Then I wait for the little gangster-wannabe to bring his gaze back to me. “Talk first. If we like what you have to say, we might spot you a little financial compensation. Who are you?”
“I already said,” he bites out, less arrogant now. “I’m Benji.”
“Sure. But who the fuck are you? Who are your people? Where do you live?”
Like this is a game to him, his lips curl into a playful smile. “Benji is all the name you need to know. My people are my business. But…” He lifts his shoulders into a shrug. “I live on Muir Road. Heard you’re looking for some witnesses from over that way.”
“You got ID that proves you live over there, Benji?” I extend my hand and turn it palm-side-up in expectation. “Otherwise, how’re we supposed to know you didn’t catch that streetname off the news and hope to sell us a bunch of bullshit?”
“Trust.” He slowly spins his beer glass and studies the ring of condensation left behind. “I already told you, I’m not giving you more of who I am. But you wanna know what I do got?” He presses closer to the table and looks deep into my fucking soul. “I got an eyeful of someone leaving Laramie Fentone’s house the other night.”
“Yeah?” Even if my stomach jumps with nerves, I keep my expression blank. My face, poker straight. “His home? Where he lived?”
Benji shakes his head. “The safehouse. The one he was staying in for the night.”
“How’d you know Fentone was staying there?” I challenge. “It’s a safehouse for a reason, kid. Confidential. Not even the cops had that address.”
“I didn’t know what it was till I saw it on the news.” Picking up the beer, he brings it to his lips and takes a long drink so his Adam’s apple bobs. “I saw Fentone was dead, and I recognized the house the news reporter was talking in front of.”
“And, what?” I press, while beside me, Fletch remains entirely too quiet. Watchful. “You think you saw someone?”
“I definitely saw someone.” He lifts his hand to his eye level, but then raises it higher. “Like, six feet tall, maybe. Broad across the chest.”
“Male or female?”
“Male. He had muscle, but he was wearing a coat to keep them hidden.”
“Right.” So far, he’s just getting lucky. Because until he nails the fact there weretwopeople walking out of Fentone’s place, I sit comfortable in the knowledge he didn’t see shit. “Hat? No hat? Glasses?”
He narrows his eyes now, thoughtful as he peers to Fletch. “No hat. Don’t know about the glasses.”
“Why don’t you know?” I ask. “Either you saw him or you didn’t.”
“I saw him from behind. He was walking away, so all I got was his back.”
