Least of all Milo Baxter.
She glanced at the clock on her dash. Just after 7:00 p.m. A hot shower, leftovers, and her couch would help her forget about him. She used voice dial to call Melanie over Bluetooth. The phone picked up and Melanie chirped out a greeting. The constant tick, tick, tick of long fingernails on a keyboard told Serena that Melanie was still at the office. No surprise there. She pictured her boss—curly red hair piled on her head in a topknot and honey-colored eyes that Serena had never seen unhappy.
“I think I got it.” She let loose a little squeak of excitement. The typing stopped.
“Ah! No way. He signed already?”
She lowered her shoulders and grasped the bottom of the steering wheel. Raindrops spiraled down the windshield in an artistic wave. “Not quite. He said he’d call Sunday, but it sounded good.”
“You rock. My promise still stands. If you land Titus’s contract, the promotion is yours. Before you get too excited, he’s also met with Ryan Des and Angelique Martin—so the pressure is on.”
Serena rubbed the crest of her forehead. Dammit, she should have known he’d consult Ryan and Angelique. If it weren’t for Melanie’s name and track record, Serena never would’ve had a shot at a deal this big. After her partner died in a tragic accident three years ago, Melanie had gone on the hunt to grow her team. When Serena had shown up at her office with a fresh license and zero experience, she’d taken her under her wing.
“Thanks, Mel. I’ll cross my fingers and keep you posted.”
The euphoric wave Serena had been on evaporated, leaving her with a mound of stress. Oh well. She’d given her consult with Titus everything she had. There was no way she could have performed better. The decision was out of her hands.
She halted at a four-way stop, scanned the intersection, and pulled out. The screech of tires filled the air and headlights blared through her side window. A truck closed in on her. Frost prickled her skin and she jammed her foot on the gas. Her SUV shot forward.
But not quickly enough.
The impact whipped her to the side and glass pelted her cheeks. The airbag fired toward her. She raised her hands to protect her face but the parachute whacked into her skull. A piercing ring reverberated through her eardrums.
No, no, no!
Her pulse spiked. Her hands trembled as she flipped open the console between the two front seats and fished around inside.
It was an accident. It had to have been an accident.
Tremors overtook her body and her teeth chattered against the chilly wind that circled in through the blown-out window. A door slammed. Bile burned the lining of her stomach. Glass crunched outside as footsteps approached.
Slow, steady footsteps. Not hurried, panicked ones. She rummaged through a pile of gas receipts and her pinky brushed against the cool steel of the object she sought. She lifted out the knife and her gaze took in the engraving on the handle.
M.B.
She flicked out the blade, and her breath spiraled in the air between her mouth and the deflating airbag. The screaming urge to run ricocheted through her mind.
You’re being paranoid.
The driver’s side door was yanked open and a gloved hand caught her sweater. Her focus locked on the barrel of a gun—pointed between her eyes. A man stood beyond the weapon, a knitted mask pulled over his face.
“Get the hell out of the car!” he barked. He moved his thumb and cocked the gun. Terror shot through her system.
He’s going to kill me.
She tightened her hand around the knife and thrust the blade toward his neck. The smooth metal sunk into his skin. Blood gushed out in a giant stream, hitting the inside of her windshield and steering wheel. A gurgling sound erupted from his throat and he collapsed on top of her. The gun fell into her footwell. A scream squeaked from her lips as his weight crushed her. Large, glassy brown eyes locked on hers through the holes in the mask. She shoved at his shoulders and he crumpled to the ground. Then she stretched toward the passenger seat, grabbed her bag, and jumped out.
“Get her!” Footsteps slapped against the wet pavement and she turned as three men charged from the SUV. Terror beat its ferocious drum into her skull.
She jumped over the man’s legs, her shoe narrowly missing a pool of his blood as she ran. Her high heels splashed through puddles. Water seeped through the unfit footwear and squished in her toes as she darted down the street. No other footsteps sounded over the roar of traffic from the neighboring street. Had they stopped following her? She whipped around and her ponytail splayed in front of her eyes.
She smacked it away and surveyed the night as she turned the corner of the next street.
They were gone.
Her lungs ached on every inhale of crisp air that coated her throat. Her overworked legs threatened to slow, but she wouldn’t give in until she was hidden. She dashed around a corner. An alleyway lay ahead, and if she cut through a yard, she could make it back to W University Avenue.
How had they found her? She’d changed her name, no longer ran in the same circle of thieving friends, yet her past had come back to haunt her. She’d been stupid to think someone wouldn’t find her, that they wouldn’t recognize her face on ads.
What do they want? Why kill me now?
The squeal of tires ripped through the air. She turned, and a black SUV rounded the corner, its front bumper crunched in and one headlight shattered. The one still working landed on her with the heat of a laser beam. The vehicle shot toward her.
No!
She skirted down the alleyway and squeezed between an old wooden fence and garage. She pressed her back against the planks. Blood roared against her throat.
The SUV crept down the alley. She pinched her eyes shut as it inched past. She had to get somewhere safe—and fast. She opened her eyes as the taillights passed. She peeled herself away from her hiding spot and cut through the nearest yard, making her way back to W University Avenue. She kept her face low and her pace swift as she charged down the still-bustling street. Although it was still busy, there weren’t enough people to conceal her. God, she wished she had one of their umbrellas to hide under.
Bang!
She shrieked. Her hands flew to her chest and sought out the source of the noise—a bus releasing air pressure. She fought to bring her heart rate down.
A bus! “Wait!” She ran to the door and pounded on the glass. The driver’s hand froze on the stick shift. He made a face and the door buckled open. She fished into her purse and dropped in enough fare to cover three bus rides.
The driver’s attention was already off her and on the mirror next to him. “Find the nearest seat, please.”
She dropped into the vacant one directly behind him. The vehicle’s fluorescent lights made her wince. She pressed her hands against her thighs and collected one steady breath after another. She couldn’t fall apart. She needed to hide. She dragged her gaze to the lit screen above the driver’s head.
Gaslamp Quarter
Her frigid blood warmed a degree. It was a sign she couldn’t ignore. Milo was the only one who could help her other than Dani. And she sure as hell didn’t want to lead murderers to Dani’s door—she had enough problems.
Milo knew her history. At one point, they’d run in the same crowds. Whoever was after her had to be someone from her past, and Milo could help her put the pieces together. But uncertainty weighed down her limbs. After the way they’d parted at Alban’s, he might not want to see her.
At the last stop on Fourth Avenue, she emerged into the rain. If her memory was correct, Tasha’s bar was after Market Street. Or was it before?
After. Definitely after.
She nestled her bag close to her side and kept her gaze on her feet as she navigated the street. Water sloshed up her bare legs. The promise of warmth and a stiff drink made her steps that much quicker. Maybe he wasn’t there anymore. It’d been almost two hours since she scrolled past Tasha’s photo on Facebook.
A door with an upside-down goat
painted on it filled her vision. The lining of her throat swelled, restricting her airway. She closed her eyes and prayed he was still there.
She yanked open the door and stepped inside. The warm scent of pub food tickled her nostrils and instantly made her stomach grumble. Voices cheered at a game on one of the dozen TVs assaulting her stunned senses. She slipped into a vacant seat at the bar and blinked to clear the ache behind her eyes. The second her butt touched the wooden stool, the tremors took over again. Her shoulders shivered and her teeth clanked together.
She needed liquor. She lifted her shaking hand to the bartender, who nodded and held up his index finger.
“Serena,” drawled a deep voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She turned in her seat and swallowed. She’d know that voice anywhere. Its cadence was so permanently etched into her consciousness that some of her muscles loosened at the sound. And others tightened. Milo’s six-foot-three frame stood inches away. Heat radiated from his warm, dry body to her freezing, wet one.
She worked her tongue over the inside of her mouth but couldn’t form a single word. Her gaze traveled from the hard, T-shirt-clad abdomen in front of her to his rugged, bristly stubble. His sharp green eyes, the shade of freshly cut grass, bore into her. His dark eyebrows crinkled, and not a single flash of delight crossed his face.
Well, tough.
She wet her lips. “Milo,” she said, her voice way too weak.
* * *
He dragged his stare down her body. He felt the familiar tug on his heart. The same one he felt every damn time he saw her. “Why are you so wet?”
Dumb question. She was wet because it was pouring outside, which was the same reason he was hanging out at the bar longer than he normally would.
After a falling out with her business partner, his sister had been in a sticky situation. She’d wanted to keep The Fainting Goat but didn’t have enough funds to buy out her partner. Milo had stepped up and bought the partner’s share but had very little to do with the business end of things. That was Tasha’s area, and he never wanted to step on her toes or make her feel indebted. He helped with the books and anything else she needed, including bouncing on weekends, but he much preferred to be at home working on his house.
He studied the dark blue of Serena’s irises, but for the life of him, he couldn’t dissect her emotions. His attention shifted to her drenched hair. When they were together, she’d been blonde, but now it was a dark brown. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a shower.
Christ, don’t start picturing her in the shower.
He’d been across the bar when her slight form settled onto the seat. At first glance, she looked nothing like the innocent-aired young woman he’d been so in love with. But in a fraction of a second, his Serena antenna had burst to life after being dormant for two years. He’d taken one hard look at her smooth, heart-shaped face and a deep hunger had roared to life inside him. Even though he’d gotten to his feet, something deep down had refused his approach for a few moments. But he couldn’t ignore the fact that she was here. Couldn’t unsee her. He’d been kicked eleven years into the past.
To the exact place he’d tried so hard to get away from.
She dragged her supple pink bottom lip between her teeth and his dick twitched, wrenching him back to the moment. He folded his arms across his chest to stop himself from touching her. She shifted her gaze to the bar and then back to him.
“Long story.” The tremble in her shoulders matched the one in her voice, and a primitive part of him needed to warm her. Hell. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t get sucked back into her orbit. Being with Serena was like being on a high. She was intoxicating, consuming, and . . . fulfilling.
He’d kicked himself in the ass every fucking day since he caught her at Alban’s two years ago. Pushing her away—again—had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.
“Whiskey on ice, Roger,” he called to the bartender. The man nodded, pulled out a short glass, and filled it. Serena accepted the drink and downed it while he studied her appearance. Mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, and the white shirt she wore beneath a cardigan was so wet it clung to her full breasts. Her taut nipples pressed against the fabric. He cleared his throat to rid the burning desire that made him want to pull her into his arms and rip off her clothes. He lowered his gaze to her feet. Bare, muddy calves tapered to slim ankles in black stilettos. Suspicion frayed his senses.
“Sorry,” she said. “I needed that.” She lifted her arm and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She shuffled her ass in the seat and met his gaze again.
“Need another one?”
She blinked, her long dark lashes falling to kiss her cheeks. “Yes, please.”
He signaled the bartender again, and Roger snatched her glass and filled it. Serena had never been much of a drinker. Unless things had changed since they were kids. It wasn’t as if he’d gotten to ask her anything the last time he saw her.
Roger passed her the drink. She didn’t grab it as greedily but still lifted it to her mouth immediately. Then she pulled her wallet out of her purse. Did she seriously think he wouldn’t buy her a couple of drinks?
“It’s on me,” he said. He took her wallet from her hand and dropped it back in her bag. She pinched her lips but must have thought better of refusing.
“Thanks.” Her tense expression had softened to something he couldn’t put his finger on. It wasn’t sad, or regretful, or any other emotion he’d hoped he’d see the first time they came face-to-face since he screamed at her to run. She twisted her lips to the side and her gaze shifted beyond his shoulder.
Fear.
Jesus, why was it so hard to talk to her? There was too much history between them. They were beyond small talk, but this wasn’t the time or place for serious shit.
“What’s going on?”
Her eyes darted around, and she took another sip without answering. He exhaled through his lips. She wasn’t making this easy. But he sure as hell couldn’t walk away. Not this time.
Something in her hair glittered in the low lighting. He stretched out his fingers and lifted a handful of her locks. Gritty chunks of something shook loose and fell to the floor. His abdominal muscles clenched. He leaned closer and studied her face. Her eyes sharpened on his, but she didn’t move away. Tiny cuts dusted her cheeks.
“What happened? Were you in an accident?”
Her throat moved on a swallow and her thumb traced the column of the glass she still clung to. She nodded. He dropped her hair and rested his hand on her shoulder. God, it was good to touch her.
“Want to talk in private?”
Her brisk nod only intensified his need to get her somewhere quiet. As she lowered herself from the stool, her hip brushed against his and he moved his hand toward the small of her back. He jerked it away before his palm connected with her spine and led her down the hall to Tasha’s office.
He opened the door and let her go in then closed it and pulled the blinds on the single window shut.
“Why are you here, Serena?” As much as he needed to find out what had happened, he also needed to know why she’d come to him. She wasn’t stupid. She knew this was his sister’s bar. No, her showing up at The Fainting Goat wasn’t a coincidence. He turned to face her and stopped. She wasn’t sitting in one of the chairs but leaning her ass against the desk, her hands pressed to her temples.
“Look, Milo. I know you don’t want to see me any more than I want to see you.” Her fingers moved in a circular motion, as if she were massaging a headache away.
Guilt lit a fire in his guts. He shrugged before she could continue. “Doesn’t bother me any.”
She squinted. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. No way he could tell her how much seeing her affected him. God, he’d wanted to see her for two fucking years—to explain, to apologize, hell, to see if she’d made it to safety that night . . . and here she was.
Her eyes shot blue fire. “Bullshit.”
What c
ould he say to that? After all, he’d told her he never wanted to see her again, and at the time, he’d meant it. At Alban’s, he’d been on the cusp of escaping the life he’d been trapped in. He’d held a ticket to freedom he couldn’t pass up. Seeing Serena that night had been like seeing the demons of his past holding shackles out, ready to confine him. He and Serena had both been so entrenched in the lifestyle, so he couldn’t blame her for that. But he’d desperately wanted to become an honest citizen—everything his father wasn’t. Now that he was, he felt like a pile of shit for telling her he never wanted to see her again.
She flicked her hair over her shoulder. Time to change the subject.
“Tell me what happened. You look like shit.”
She snorted and rubbed her index finger beneath her eye, smearing the black marks even more. “Still a sweet-talker, I see.”
He closed the distance between them, and she lifted her chin. God she was pale. Her pupils remained dilated, even under the brighter lights. Her difficulty talking about the accident could have something to do with shock.
“Is that why you’re here? You want me to sweet-talk you?” He was pressing her buttons, but something had to get her talking.
Her lips moved into a smirk. “Easy, Milo.” She pressed her palm to his chest, easing him back a step. Her icy palm ate through the material of his T-shirt. “I had nowhere else to go.” Her tongue swept across her top teeth, and she curled her fingers away from his pec.
Looking at her, he zeroed in on a stain on the cuff of her sweater. He lifted her elbow.
He pulled at the material and saw a river of dried blood on the inside of her sleeve. “Why the hell is there blood on your arm?”
Her arm shook. “Oh, god. Oh my god.” Her free hand grabbed at his forearm. “I’m going to get sick.”
He towed her to the bathroom adjoined to the office. She cupped her hands around the white porcelain sink and sucked in several low breaths. Her shoulders shuddered on each inhale. He pressed one hand on the center of her back and smoothed back her hair with the other.
The Last Heist (Pretty Thieves Book 1) Page 3