But maybe Ryan and Luke were right. It had been too long since I’d gotten laid. I needed a stress relief of some kind. A physical release better than the sparring. Something to help free the darkness inside me. To push the persistent souls aside. Sex was a great physical release, if I could find a willing female. It sounded as if Ryan and Luke knew where to find loose women. Maybe tonight I would go with them. It couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t as if Nate gave a damn where I was right now. He and Alissa were too busy fucking like rabbits themselves to care about me.
“Okay, I’ll go with you guys.”
Ryan eyed me critically. “We’d better do something with your appearance first.” He turned me toward his apartment. “You’re likely to scare the women away dressed as you are all in black. You can wear one of my shirts. And you’ll need a spray of cologne to tease their nostrils and lure them closer. Women can’t resist a man who smells good.”
I scowled. “What the hell’s wrong with my clothes? And I don’t stink.”
Luke snickered. “Your clothes are fine for hanging out here. But if you want to pick up a woman, you need to catch her attention, not blend into the shadows. And you need to learn how to smile once in a while. If you’re always scowling, you’ll just scare them all away. The goal is to snare her, reel her in. And once you’ve caught her, give her a night she’ll never forget.”
Ryan nodded in agreement. He steered me into his bedroom and searched through his closet before pulling out a light blue shirt with white flowery-looking splotches on it. He held it up to me, contemplating. “This should do it. It brings light to your dark personality, neutralizing your scariness with some chirpiness.”
I scowled. Ha. Ha. Funny guy. “I’m not wearing flowers,” I growled out.
Luke cackled again, motioning to the closet. “Give him the red one. It’s more cheery. It’ll draw a woman’s gaze. And make him appear less dark.”
Less dark? I tried not to be offended by that. I knew they only had good intentions.
Ryan returned the blue shirt to its hanger and pulled out the red one. The red shirt was just that—red. It had no designs or emblems or words. But it was still bright. Bold. Eye-catching. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to catch anyone’s eye. I preferred hiding in the shadows. Unnoticed.
Ryan slapped the shirt against my chest. “Put it on.” He turned toward his bathroom while I yanked the plain black T-shirt over my head and tossed it aside. Then I slipped my arms through the sleeves of the red shirt, feeling like an imposter as I began buttoning it up. This shirt wasn’t me. Not at all. It was too bright. Too attention-getting.
Ryan returned with a bottle of cologne and handed it to me. I hesitated. I’d never worn cologne before. Where did I spray it?
“Your neck.” Ryan pointed to the center of his neck right above his collar bone. “Right there in that pulse point.”
I sprayed one squirt where he indicated, then handed it back. The scent flowed upward, reaching my nostrils. A hint of pine, woods, nature. It was certainly masculine.
“Not bad.”
“Now your hair.” Ryan waved at my head.
I stepped back. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
Luke guffawed. “Seriously. Look at yourself, dude.” He steered me into the bathroom and in front of the mirror. “Your hair needs some life. Some…fluff.”
“Fluff?” Were they messing with me? “I’m not a fucking girl.”
Ryan handed me a small black and blue bottle. “Here. Put this in your hair. Massage it around. It’ll make it stand up better.”
My hair was cut in a short, military fashion, though it was getting longer and now falling over on top. I’d never really paid much attention to my appearance before. Now I conceded I probably needed a trim. I eyed the bottle suspiciously. “What is it?”
“It’s hair gel, you moron.”
I hesitated, then squirted some into my palm.
“Rub the shit into your hair and squish the ends up,” Ryan advised. “It will give you a preppy, well-kept look. Chicks dig that.”
When I still hesitated, Ryan muttered, “Come on. I’m not doing it for you.”
I rubbed the gel into my hair, squishing it into the ends like Ryan suggested. I felt like a damn peacock. I glanced into the mirror. I looked younger like this. Cool. Hip. Like a popular guy.
Whoa. Was that really me?
I jerked my gaze away from the mirror, uncomfortable with what I saw.
Then, unable to resist, I pulled my gaze back to the mirror again, checking myself out. Not bad. I forced myself to smile, startled at the transformation. Luke was right. I looked better when I smiled. Scowling made me look mean. Unapproachable. While smiling made me look normal. Good-looking, even.
“You could use a shave,” Ryan added, “But scruffy is in nowadays, so we’ll let it go.”
Luke smirked again and slapped me on the arm. “Let’s go, lover boy.”
I rubbed a hand over my two-day scruff as they steered me out of Ryan’s apartment and out into the maze. Did women prefer smooth-shaven faces over scruff? I guess if I bombed out tonight, then that meant I should have shaved first.
A restless urge hit me as we reached the surface. I needed action. Maybe getting laid would help me deal with the persistent souls tonight. But it was bigger than that. The souls were louder when I was weak, preying on my insecurities. And right now, I was weak. The inner turmoil that had been raging inside me ever since Noah had shown me my file from The Company was rising up like a tidal wave. Knowing my mother hadn’t wanted me had only slammed the knife home, skewering what was left of my heart, reminding me how unwanted I had been my entire life. Not one person had wanted me. Ever.
The emptiness inside me had widened until now my chest was just a huge, gaping hole. I had virtually no feelings left inside me. I was truly empty. Barren.
I needed something to help release some of the darkness inside me. To purge some of the restlessness and the violence from within. And set my demons free.
As we headed into Eatonton in Luke’s Camaro, I had high hopes of finding a soft, willing woman to help me relieve my turmoil.
But when I walked into that small bar in Eatonton, I found so much more.
CHAPTER TWO
Grace
A fancy sports car and a good Irish draft.
Those were two of my favorite things. I loved cars and I loved beer.
Tonight I wore a slutty dress as I sat at the bar, nurturing a good Irish draft. Riley’s was a small establishment situated in a quiet part of town. Regularly frequented by the locals, it boasted good beer and good food. Both were true. It was also a place where many came to “hook up”. I came for the beer, not the hooking up. This place reminded me of the pubs at home in Ireland. Riley was a fiftyish Irishman with thick blond sideburns who’d opened the bar three years ago. He was big and broad and reminded me of my da. He was also the only other Irishman I’d met in America.
I had just returned from an undercover sting, pretending to be something I was not: a prostitute. Hence, the slutty dress.
There had been an influx of prostitution in Eatonton since the gang wars had erupted in Augusta, and my boss, the police chief, had organized several prostitution stings to take down some of the illegal activity that was becoming more prevalent here. Since I was one of the few female cops on the payroll—and the only one the chief believed could go undercover as a prostitute and manage to pull it off—I was the one who got the job.
Lucky me.
I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or flattered that the chief thought I was the best one to do this. Tonight had been the second takedown we’d done this week. We’d caught and arrested five men who’d propositioned me and handed over money, thinking they were going to get laid. The only “laying” they’d be doing for a while was on an uncomfortable jail bed.
Exhausted from a night of treachery in which I’d lured in and helped arrest the “johns”, I’d headed to Riley’s afterwards to have a celebratory drink a
nd relax. Going undercover could be stressful and sometimes dangerous. Afterwards it was nice to have a drink to unwind.
The place was sparsely populated tonight, only a few patrons in the building. Which was fine with me. Though I’d never been self-conscious about my body or worried about what people thought of me, since I was still dressed in my “prostitute attire”, I might give some people the wrong impression. The last thing I wanted was an overly friendly guy trying to pick me up, thinking I was here to “hook up”.
Not that I couldn’t handle myself. I was Irish. I’d grown up with three older brothers who’d teased and tormented me for as long as I could remember. They were the reason I drank beer. Anything they did, I could do better. Well, most of the time. They were still bigger and stronger than me, but I could always outwit them.
I was also a cop. A damned good one. I could handle myself in just about any situation. So any guy who came on too strong would learn quickly that I could take care of myself. And that “back off” meant exactly that. Rarely did I have to get too physical. Most guys took the hint and left me alone. Plus, Riley always looked out for me. One Irishman to another. If I encountered trouble I couldn’t handle on my own, I could always count on Riley to step in.
After a few deep swallows of my beer, the stress of the evening began to wear off.
Then I allowed myself to think about a bigger, more distressing matter.
My foster girls—Teresa and Camille—were still missing. They’d disappeared three nights ago. I had already exhausted all of my resources in an attempt to find them. Several of my informants had reported recent sightings of the Flesh King in the area. For the past two nights I’d tossed and turned, nightmares of my girls being snatched up by Enrique Vasquez and sold into the sex trade haunting me. Sick perverts touching them, forcing them to do things no woman should be forced into.
The beer tried to rise back up my throat, and it was only sheer will that kept it down.
When I’d mentioned my fears to my boss, he’d told me there was nothing he could do about it. Augusta and the gang activities were not our jurisdiction, he informed me, and he—and I—couldn’t get involved. Basically, he told me to give up and not do anything to save my girls.
I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t give up on them. Which was why I had to figure out a way to find them and get them back.
But how? I had repeatedly badgered all my contacts, even my private investigator friend, to try to find my girls. But no one had seen them. No one knew where the Flesh King kept his prisoners. I’d even done some detective work of my own, but the Flesh King was like a phantom. Untraceable. Where the hell was that bastard? Where the hell were my girls?
Calm down. Don’t give up. You’ll find them. You have to.
I nursed my drink for the next fifteen or twenty minutes and contemplated how I would get into Augusta to track them down. I would need some kind of help, but obviously not the help of my fellow cops. Someone had to know where the Flesh King resided. It seemed a trip into Augusta was inevitable. I just had to figure out how to get inside the city.
And then it hit me. Alissa. She’d said the dregs had saved her from Vasquez.
Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
I hadn’t heard from her in over a week. She’d left me a message saying she was fine, that she was with Nate.
I slipped my phone out of my purse and scrolled through the most recent calls. I’d been so worried about my foster girls that I hadn’t thought about Alissa the past few days. Her phone had been stolen by the Spartans gang, so she’d called from “a friend’s phone” which I assumed to be the dreg she was with. I didn’t know how else to contact Alissa, except to call the number she’d called from. I found the number in my call list and pressed the “call” icon.
It rang and rang, then went to voicemail. Shite.
I left a message. “This is Alissa’s friend, Grace. I need help finding my foster kids. They may have been kidnapped by the Flesh King. I don’t know who else to call. If you get this message, please, please call me back.” I disconnected and stuffed the phone back in my purse.
Defeat settled in. What if it was too late? What if Teresa and Camille were out of reach? What if they were dead?
The door opened behind me. I glanced up into the mirror along the bar across from me, watching as three men entered the building at my back.
The first was tall and muscular, with dark hair and a prosthetic arm. The second was also tall and well-built, except he was blond instead of dark. Both were extremely good-looking and dressed fashionably. They would draw a woman’s eye no matter where they went.
But it was the third man who captured my gaze, hypnotizing me, and arrested me on the spot. I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
The third man was darker. Hispanic? As tall and as muscular as the other two, he was dressed in a bright red Polo shirt. Even clear across the room, I picked up on the dark energy that flowed off him.
His gaze swept the room, then he spotted me at the bar.
Our gazes locked as his eyes met mine in the mirror.
My breath caught. His features were chiseled, lean, handsome, yet still somehow harsh at the same time. A few days’ growth of beard stubble peppered his jaw. Feck, he was gorgeous. Sexy. Dark and dangerous.
He seemed vaguely familiar. Had I seen him somewhere before?
Then the truth crashed into me.
I’d seen his face on a wanted poster. Just that very day, in fact.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
He was a dreg.
The Smuggler.
Holy shite! Holy shite! Holy shite!
The Smuggler had just walked into the bar.
I forced myself to glance away, to act disinterested, though my heart was sprinting out of control. I swallowed the rest of my beer and set the empty mug on the bar. Catching Riley’s eye, I lifted the mug, indicating I was ready for another. Moments later, Riley removed my empty mug and replaced it with a fresh one.
I couldn’t resist a quick glance in the mirror again, wanting to see where The Smugger went.
I let out a startled gasp as he suddenly appeared on my right. His presence was like a dark whirlpool in the room, sucking the air right out of my lungs. I turned toward him, swallowing hard.
His gaze snared mine again. Up close, he was even more beautiful than he was at a distance. Holy shite, the man was breathtaking. Wild. My female parts swooned and gushed with excitement, wanting to touch. I silently scolded them, forcing them back. The Smuggler had a bounty on his head. Fifty grand. He was a walking cash pool.
Oh yeah, did I mention I was a bounty hunter on the side? I caught wanted felons and criminals who failed to appear for their arraignments. No one intimidated me. No matter how big or mean or dangerous, if they had a bounty on their head, I took them down. And I got paid to do it.
Sure, it was dangerous, but the extra cash helped me pay my bills and feed my foster kids.
Fifty grand was enough to pay someone to help me find Teresa and Camille.
Feck the money. I didn’t want it. I needed the man. I needed his expertise to find my girls. The Smuggler was a dreg. He could help me. Was he the answer to my prayers?
How the feck would I convince this man to help me?
Realizing I was staring, I averted my gaze and took a gulp of my beer. I glanced up in the mirror as the other two men who had entered with The Smuggler stepped up to the bar beside him and ordered their drinks. They had to be dregs, also. They were too powerful-looking, too impressive, not to be dregs. I may have seen their faces on wanted posters too, but I couldn’t be sure. They didn’t leave me breathless and my heart racing like The Smuggler did.
And all the while, The Smuggler just stood there, staring at me. He was bold to the point of rudeness. Standing too close. Not quite touching. His dark gaze steadily taking me in. I found myself turning back to him, unable to ignore him. His gaze locked on mine, holding me captive, the darkness of his eyes and the secrets
within, pulling me in. I’d met lots of brown-eyed people before, but The Smuggler’s eyes weren’t brown. They were much darker than that. Black. Smoky. Fathomless. Everything about the man was sexy. Even his black-as-sin eyes. The dark aura that surrounded him didn’t frighten me like I’m sure it would most people. Instead, it intrigued me. What lay deep beneath the surface of this man? What secrets hid in the depths of those deep, dark eyes? There was an edginess, a dangerous harshness about him that made awareness snake through me. I knew I should be afraid of him. But I wasn’t.
If he’d been any other man, I would have been offended and already warned him off, told him it was rude to stare and to get out of my personal space. But I found myself completely captivated by him. Hypnotized by those dark eyes. I wanted to share my personal space with him—all of my personal space. I wanted to look deeply into those dark, fathomless eyes and see into his soul. I couldn’t seem to find my voice, much less move away.
The blond guy slugged him on the arm. “Hey man, stop staring. That’s rude. You’ll scare her away.”
The Smuggler jolted, his face turning red beneath his dark skin. But he didn’t look away. His gaze boldly traveled down my body, a slow, steady perusal, then crawled back to my face.
“How much?” he asked, his voice deep with a faint Spanish accent.
Oh, feck me, I loved Spanish accents. They were so damn sexy. I barely resisted the urge to lift a hand to fan myself from his hotness.
Then his words finally jolted through me.
Had I heard him correctly?
I jerked my eyebrows up. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
The Smuggler Page 2