You fucking asshole! You fucking little creep!
The grin disappeared from Pete’s face, replaced by a look of fury. Pete paced up and down the small area. The fury inside him was white hot and made him almost blind with rage.
You interfering son of a bitch.
Peter Crofton told himself to calm down. He took several deep breaths, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. Breathe in…breathe out…breathe in…breathe out…
It didn’t help enough, so he did it a few more times. In…out…in…out…
There, said Pete to himself, there, the old heartbeat’s back to normal. Now, think, goddammit, think…
Pete opened the fridge and reached for a beer. He thought twice about that and pulled out a bottle of water instead. He climbed up to the bridge and threw himself into the captain’s chair, prepared to sit there all night watching the Lenore. The stupid, fucking Lenore. The longer, faster, richer, fucking Lenore.
Breathe in…breathe out…
Pete…Peter Crofton…Peter James Crofton…aka Paul James Churchill, Phillip James Clawson and Patrick James Collins…the only thing that stayed the same were the initials and the middle name…James…that was his real middle name and Pete wasn’t willing to give it up. As for the initials, it made it so much easier for verisimilitude with things such as monogrammed shirts and attaché cases. Pete knew he was running a risk, should he ever have his name shoved through a computer database, but he considered that unlikely, given his extreme intelligence and careful planning.
And now it was all going to hell in a handbasket thanks to a Backstreet Boy. A stupid, fucking Backstreet Boy.
A Backstreet Boy who in the beginning had seemed liked Pete’s greatest asset. Like the perfect fucking cherry on top of the fucking sundae.
Pete couldn’t believe his luck when he’d run into Nick in Calabash. It was like a miracle.
Pete had thought he was done for. Life with Mickey had been unraveling at an alarming rate; she’d gotten very suspicious about his past, started asking lots of questions. Then, that night, before they were supposed to leave, she’d faced him up with it…told him she was dumping him.
Pete had stood there dumbfounded while Mickey had brought up all this crap from his past… Celia… Margie …his job…his life…his lies…
Pete had done what he did best. He’d talked. He’d explained. He’d charmed. He’d been doing it since shortly after he’d learned to talk.
But Mickey wasn’t buying it. She started dredging up every little thing he’d ever said. What about this? What about that?
Pete had used every trick in his very extensive arsenal to deflect the truth. He’d tried confused: What? What are you saying? I don’t understand.
He’d tried defensive: I can’t believe you're saying this. What’s the matter with you?
Hurt : I love you, Mickey. I thought you loved me too.
Deflective: Ahhh, Jo... Come on, Mickey, you know she’s always been jealous of us.
Jo.
Pete’s eyes narrowed in anger.
That bitch.
Pete looked over at the Lenore. He could see that the lights were on in the cabin. Nick and Jo were having dinner in, apparently. They probably didn’t want to stray too far from the boat. They probably didn’t want to run into him.
Pete went below and got himself a beer. One beer wouldn’t fog his mind too much, he decided. And there wasn’t much he could do tonight, except watch them and make sure they didn’t get away. Because he couldn’t let them do that now.
Shit!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Jo had not been wrong when she called Pete a ‘natural born liar’. Pete could not remember the first lie he ever told, but it had been early on in his life. Even before he knew what the word ‘charm’ meant, Pete was using it on everyone who crossed his path…men and women alike.
Pete had learned the ways of duplicity from his mother. Pete never knew his father. He had, however, known an unending string of ‘uncles’, who were happy to fish in their pockets for some change to make a little kid disappear to the arcade for the afternoon while they ‘discussed business’ with his momma.
Pete remembered the day his mother had explained the virtues of lying. Pete had asked her why she’d told the man in the shoe store that she was only 25. He knew she was 26 ½. His mother told him that it made her seem more attractive if she were only 25. Pete said that he didn’t see the difference. His mother said she had only been telling the clerk what he wanted to hear. The clerk had told her that he was 26. Therefore, she had to be younger. Pete didn’t understand it all at the time. He did remember the shoe salesman coming to dinner that evening, though.
Pete had watched his mother carefully after that, noting the lies she told and the effect it had on people. Then he decided to try it himself. He discovered that he was a natural at it.
Pete lied his way through elementary school. He honed his craft and became an expert. Homework not done? Pete didn’t flash Bambi eyes and a poor excuse like the other kids. He never said he was sick or busy or taking some kind of fucking music lessons that his mother would never have been able to afford. He simply gazed into the teacher’s eyes and said sadly, “I tried, but…”, letting the teacher, who’d met his mother, do all the imagining for him.
Less is more. That was one of the first lessons that Pete had learned. But he didn’t seem to be able to apply it here. He’d gotten in deeper and deeper with this Carter asshole, giving out way too much info. Why couldn’t the bastard have just disappeared after the first night like he was supposed to?
Man, when he’d called out Pete’s name in Charleston…well, Pete just couldn’t believe it. The guy was supposed to be taking his time, and he’d powered through just like Pete had. And he’d managed to find the right marina, too! Pete could cheerfully have throttled the guy. He’d wanted to grab him by the throat and scream in his face.
But he didn’t.
Of course, he didn’t. Hiding his anger was one of the things that Pete did best. He had learned that early on. He’d been even better than his mother at this deception. Showing anger was a weakness. No matter how much the fury burned within, no matter how much you wanted to reach out and hurt someone, no matter what…you smiled, you shrugged, you grinned. It gave you an enormous advantage over your adversaries. It confused and disarmed them. It made them feel guilty. It put them on the defensive.
So when that fucking asshole popstar had admitted that he had Jo, Pete had summoned all his strength, and he’d grinned at the little creep. Yes, grinned at him. Man, the look on the guy’s face. Shit! Pete wished he had a picture of that. Nick hadn’t known where to go from there; he’d been the proverbial deer in the headlights. And Pete had used it to his advantage, letting the polite, proper side of Nick stare at Pete’s ingenuous grin and doubt everything Jo had told him.
Still, obviously they’d had the discussion about the eating disorder. That was pretty obvious from Jo’s curt remarks. Nevertheless, Pete thought he’d handled that pretty well. Never deny. Well, obviously, that was rule number one. Once you’d told a lie, you never went back on it. You always moved forward. So a shrug and a benign comment, “I know that’s what she says.”
Pete tipped up the beer and drained it. He raised a hand to his brow and wiped the sweat away. That made him angry all over again. Why was he sitting here sweating? It was all supposed to be over and done with.
Pete shook his head to clear it. No, can’t get angry, have to focus, have to plan. Pete knew that he was smarter than Nick Carter. He was smarter than Jordana Miles, and he was smarter than any stupid police officer or whatever that they might get involved in this. He’d outsmarted the police before, and he could do it again.
He just had to think.
He glanced over at the Lenore. He couldn’t see any movement or shadows in the living area. Maybe they had retired to the bedroom. Fine! Let them! Let them fuck their brains out! Pete didn’t need that. He just needed to think.
