Surviving Ice

by K. A. Tucker

  “I thought you said you knew how to tell time?”

  “I said I’m never late.”

  “Thirty minutes early is almost as bad as being late.”

  “That shirt looks nice on you,” he responds, ignoring my selfish complaint completely.

  “Then enjoy it, because it’ll be the last time you see me in anything that resembles bubble gum,” I grumble, opening his passenger-side door. “Can you drop me off at my house after so I can get out of it?”

  “Yeah. But I’ll be coming with you. You’re not going in there alone.”

  “Is that so?” I roll my eyes, but I can’t ignore the small thrill that zips through my body. God, I think I’m attracted to this dominating side of him, and I hate it when guys try to tell me what to do. But when Sebastian does it, I don’t mind. It makes me feel safe. Maybe that’s because, for the first time in my life, I truly am not safe. “Do you think the burglary might not have been random?”

  With his hand on the ignition, he pauses. “Can you think of any reason why someone might want to break into your dead uncle’s house?”

  “No.” Same answer I gave to the cops last night. “But there must be a reason.”

  “Did he say anything to you recently, about coming into money or needing money?”

  “You think this was about money?”

  “Everything’s about money,” he says under his breath.

  I sigh. “Ned liked to gamble but . . .” I tell Sebastian about the hundred thousand against the building and his empty accounts. “Do you think that’s what it’s about?”

  “Could be. Or something he knew about that he shouldn’t. Did he say anything about any of his clients lately? Maybe someone told him something that they shouldn’t have?”

  I frown. “No. Nothing he mentioned to me, at least. I told you, he wasn’t exactly the warmest guy. I have a hard time imagining someone spilling their deep, dark secrets to him.”

  After a long pause, Sebastian offers, “Well, then it could be nothing.” His face is unreadable. “People in the neighborhood would have heard about your uncle’s death, and unfortunately that means that thieves would assume the house is an easy target.”

  I study his face. “But you don’t actually believe that, do you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because they tore the place to shreds and smashed the flat-screen—the only thing worth stealing in there.”

  He sighs, his gaze drifting out the window. “Could have been jacked up on drugs. Could have been pissed off that there was nothing there to take. Whatever the reason, you’re not stepping foot in that house without me again for now. Understood?”

  “For now? What does that mean?”

  He slides the key into the ignition and cranks the engine, but doesn’t answer.

  I guess the bodyguard who showed his protective head last night is here to stay. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “No one said you did.”

  “I’m serious. I’m not paying you to do this. I can’t afford it.”

  He snorts. “I never asked you to.”

  Then why are you still here? “Don’t you have things you need to do? People to see?” Maybe that’s the issue. Maybe he has nobody else to fill his time with. Maybe he’s a complete loner, married to his job, with no friends or family. I really don’t know him at all.

  He turns to level me with a look. “Do you want me to have something else to do today?”

  I hesitate, before admitting casually, “Well, not necessarily, but—”

  “Then shut up and stop trying to get rid of me.” He pulls out of Dakota’s driveway.

  I press my lips together to keep from smiling.

  “I would reco white. A nice, crisp one, like . . .” Fausto, a thirty-something-year-old guy with slicked black hair hiding beneath a baseball cap and a heavy New York accent, pulls out a deck of paint colors, fanning them out on the dirty floor in front of me. “. . . Ghost or Ice.”

  “White for Black Rabbit?” I don’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice. I spin slowly around, taking in the main room. Without all the clutter to hide the dinginess, this place looks atrocious at best. As a customer, I’d take one look in here and turn around, with thoughts of hep C screaming inside my head. Fair enough.

  But white?

  “As a starting off point, yeah. You can weave in some bold colors—a nice jammy red over on that wall there, an indigo or peacock blue over here. Maybe hammered-bronze ceiling tiles. Tons of possibilities. I’ll help you make your shop stand out.”

  “We’re selling this place,” I’m quick to say.

  He shrugs. “All right. Fine. Then leave it as a blank canvas for whoever comes in, because everyone has their own spin. Just get rid of this black. The grunge look is dead. People want a nice, clean environment.”

  I chew my lip in thought. I’m always so sure of colors and design when it comes to my sketchbook and a skin canvas, but for some reason I can’t see past Ned’s version of his shop. He’d be rolling in his grave over this.

  “But, hey, if you don’t want to listen to someone who actually knows what he’s talking about, then, sure, we can go with your plan and you guys can lose a boatload of money,” Fausto adds.

  He’s a cocky bastard.

  He sounds just like me, when I’m convincing someone that my design is better than whatever they have in mind.

  I turn to Sebastian, who stands with his arms folded over his chest. The other painter already stripped the window of its shade in order to prepare all the work surfaces—filling holes, patching cracks—so the front of the store is wide open and bare. He looks every bit the guard that he said I didn’t need, surveying the street. I’m starting to think he was lying to me.

  “What do you think, Sebastian?”

  He turns at his name, his eyebrow pops up from behind dark sunglasses. He has no idea what I’m talking about. He’s barely paid two seconds of attention to me since we stepped in here. The flirtatious guy from last night, who had his hands on me at every chance, has disappeared, replaced with this cool, detached replica of the first day we met.

  “I was going to have him paint everything black again but he said—”

  “Go with Ice.” He turns back to watch the street again.

  I smirk. He’s probably always listening, and watching, even when I don’t know it.

  I heave a sigh. “All right, Fausto. I’m going to trust you on this.” What do I care? Ned is dead and repainting it black isn’t going to bring him back. Stripping it of all character and personality might give some closure.

  Fausto claps his hands together. “Buono! I’ll get this mixed. Jimmy will stay and prep.”

  I dangle the spare key on a finger and then toss it to his waiting hands. “How long do you think this will take?”

  “Depending on how many coats it takes to cover the black . . .” His face twists into an exaggerated frown with his thought, reminding me of Ned. “With two more of my guys to help, give us three days and we should be done.”

  “All right. You have my number if anything comes up.” I glance at Sebastian. “Ready to go, driver?”

  He nods, not acknowledging my dig with so much as an eyebrow spike, now focused on Fausto. “If anyone shows up here and starts asking questions or is poking around, I want you to take down a physical description and call Ivy immediately.”

  Fausto snorts. “What the hell do I look like? I’m the painter, not your fucking secretary.”

  Sebastian slides his glasses off and takes several steps forward, peering down at the short Italian man. There’s a shift in the air. I can feel his dominance radiating; he somehow seems taller, stronger, his presence more ominous. I think I’m going to have to dive in between them. Sebastian can’t go breaking my painter’s arms. “This is important. I would appreciate the help.” His tone is always on the clipped side. Now, though, it’s laced with a threat.

  “Yeah. Okay. Either me or Jimmy will relay to Ivy if something
comes up,” Fausto mumbles, adjusting his baseball cap several times as he takes a step back.

  I slip a hand around Sebastian’s arm and tug his arm. “Ready?”

  He slides his glasses back over his eyes. With a hand on the small of my back, he leads me out without another word to the guys.

  “What was that?”

  “That was your painter being smart.” He opens the passenger-side door for me, his eyes veering to the left and right. Everywhere but to me.

  I sigh and climb in.

  The broom handle clatters loudly against the tile floor and I gasp at the sudden noise.

  Sebastian simply props it up in the corner again without a word. I’ve been jumpy since the moment we climbed the steps out front, and I’ve done a terrible job of hiding it.

  I hate that the assholes who did this have made me nervous to simply be in this house.

  Shaking it off, I right the wooden end table in the living room and focus on the silver lining. “At least this makes cleaning the house out and getting it ready to sell easier for me.” Pretty much everything—right down to the Raisin Bran and mac & cheese from the kitchen pantry—is now trash. I need to rent a Dumpster.

  “What did the insurance company say?” Sebastian asks, leaning the smashed flat-screen TV against the wall, giving me a good view of his muscular backside.

  “It said, ‘We’re sorry that your uncle didn’t pay his premiums in time and have fun with this giant mess, suckers.’ ” After a moment, I look up to see Sebastian simply standing there, staring at me.

  “What?” I snap, though I don’t mean to.

  He gives his head a quick shake and then calmly says, “You’ll need new locks on these doors right away.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware of that.” I sigh, tossing the broken lamp onto the torn-apart couch. “I guess I’m going to hire a locksmith.”

  “I can put new locks on for you.”

  “You’re a bodyguard and a locksmith?”

  He smirks, like there’s some sort of inside joke. “No, but I know a lot about locks.”

  I’m not going to ask. Maybe it’s something he picked up in the navy. Besides, refusing his help hasn’t even crossed my mind today. Since stepping into this house in broad daylight, I’ve been nothing but quietly relieved that Sebastian didn’t drop me off and leave, that he feels the need to stay with me, for whatever reason.

  A loud, abrupt holler of “Hello?” from the doorway makes me jump again.

  I curse and spin on my heels to see Detective Fields stepping over the threshold, sliding his sunglasses off his clean-shaven face to hook the arm in the front of his olive-green dress shirt, his gaze taking in the destruction.

  “I take it you got my message.” I left it this morning, on our way to meet the painters, just like Ian told me to. But honestly I assumed I wouldn’t be hearing from him again.

  “I did.” He has an even, calm don’t-mess-with-me way about him. Almost bored. I can’t tell if he even likes his job. I haven’t seen him smile much. Then again, most people say I don’t smile much either, and I love my job.

  “And?”

  A piece of broken glass crunches under his shoe as he comes to stop a few feet from me, glancing at Sebastian, who keeps working away. “And I agree that it is too coincidental.”

  “Have you talked to the cops who were here last night?”

  He nods slowly. He’s an attractive enough guy, though ordinary looking. He’s in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair, cut with four-inch clippers all the way around. Someone you’d expect to see in a picture with two kids, a wife, and a sweater-wearing dog. “I saw a copy of the preliminary report. They have no prints and no witnesses to work from yet, unfortunately.”

  “Great, so basically a dead end.” Just like Ned’s murder. Surprise, surprise. I’m beginning to feel firsthand how easy it is to get away with crime in this city.

  “Not yet. They’re thinking the culprits are probably either a bunch of vandals who like to destroy homes, or someone Ned owed money to, coming to search.”

  Money. Sebastian asked about Ned owing money.

  Fields stretches on his tiptoes to study the hole in the wall where the vent cover was ripped off.

  “I guess that would explain that, then.”

  “Did your uncle ever mention anything about owing money to Devil’s Iron?” Fields asks, turning his attention back to me, in time to catch my frown.

  “No. Why?” They’re still after the biker gang for this?

  “I have a source that says Ned was into it large with them.”

  “But . . .” I frown. Bobby told me there was nothing there. Unless the sneaky fuck was lying to me.

  Fields gestures at the vents and the holes in the wall. “This, to me, looks like someone on the hunt for hidden cash in hopes of settling up a debt that otherwise won’t get paid.”

  Because corpses don’t pay.

  “I’ll send some guys over to feel them out,” he offers.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, my anger boiling. Those assholes were supposed to be Ned’s friends. Would they do something like this?

  Fields heads out with a single nod toward Sebastian, leaving me stewing in silence. What did they expect? That there’d be wads of cash hidden in the walls? Maybe there was. If that’s the case, then I guess I’m safe from a repeat visit. But if not . . .

  I just want to get this over with and go back to Dakota’s.

  “There’s a Home Depot not far from here. If I give you cash, can you—”

  “Nope. You’re not staying here alone,” Sebastian replies quickly. He was silent during the detective’s visit—although I’m sure he was listening to every word.

  I really don’t want to either, but there’s just so much to do . . . “It’s fine. The lock on the handle still works. Besides, who’s going to come back a second time? There’s nothing left to steal or break.”

  Sebastian stands, pulling off his work gloves, and levels me with a look.

  I rest my arms over my chest. “Are you always this bossy and paranoid? Or do you know something I don’t know, because if you do, maybe you should tell me so we don’t spend all afternoon arguing. Look at what I have to deal with.” I stretch my arms out at the mess. “It makes way more sense for you to grab the locks and me to keep collecting this shit so we can be done with this mess and I can go have a nap because I’m so damn tired of this nightmare,” I ramble on.

  In three quick strides he’s over the pile of stuffing torn from the couch and on me, his fingers weaving into the back of my hair as he pulls my mouth to his.

  The kiss is hard and fast, lasting just long enough to remind me of last night on the front steps before everything fell apart. “Shut up and get your purse,” he whispers. He turns and strolls out the front door.

  And I follow, quietly, my senses suddenly wide awake.

  TWENTY-TWO

  SEBASTIAN

  What the fuck is happening?

  I go from hunting down a videotape with a highly sensitive, incriminating, and libelous confession to picking out paint colors and shopping for locks with the woman who used to be a potential target.

  And I’m enjoying it.

  Then again, I let that same potential target permanently mark my body with her hands. And I fully plan on being inside her the first chance I get.

  So, this situation was already all kinds of fucked-up, even before today.

  “Okay. What do you think about this?” Ivy holds up a dead bolt. “Schlage. That’s a good brand, right?”

  “Not as easy to pick as some of the others.”

  She shoots a sideways glance but doesn’t ask any questions, tossing it into the shopping cart, already filled with trash bags and new lightbulbs, to replace the ones that were smashed. Bentley’s guys had no reason to go as far as smashing lightbulbs. “Then I think we’re good, unless you need any other tools?”

  “Nope.” Her uncle’s toolbox was well stocked, though its contents were scattered all over the g
arage floor.

  “Okay, then. Cash register it is,” she says through a sigh. She seems to be taking this all in stride, though by her jumpiness and the look of dismay on her face when we saw the interior of the house in daylight earlier, she’s far from fine.

  Ivy pushes the shopping cart down the aisle, not checking to see if I’m following.

  I smile at her back. She changed out of that soft pink shirt the second we stepped into the house, switching it for a blood-red loose-fitting one that falls off one shoulder and covers that fantastic ass, and has the word FIERCE scrawled across the back.

  How appropriate.

  It’s that ferocity that keeps reeling me in tighter.

  But I’m glad she’s also not arguing with me every step of the way anymore. She knows, or at least suspects, that what happened at Ned’s house is not complete coincidence, even though I tried to distract her with lame theories about neighborhood vandals that she saw right through. And I know that if her uncle ever made any comments about Dylan Royce to her, she hasn’t made any connections to any of this.

  I can’t decide if having Ivy think that the burglary is tied to a biker gang and her uncle’s debts is a good idea. It’s definitely a convenient cover story for Bentley’s purposes. The detective’s visit today did help answer some questions for me, though. Mainly, why Ned Marshall would try to blackmail Alliance for money. If he owes a biker gang like Devil’s Iron, that might be reason enough.

  But I want to throttle Bentley right now, because he’s fucked her over large. That house is a wreck. It’s thousands—easily—in repairs. I should not do this. I should not offer . . . “I’ll help you patch the walls and fix the other damage.” Why the hell did I just promise her that? I’m gone as soon as this assignment’s over. I have no reason to stay.

  She spins on her heels as she keeps walking, facing me.

  “Unless you’re going to refuse and tell me that you know how to patch holes and plaster walls, and you don’t need any help,” I add with a small smile. That’s what she probably would have done just days ago. That’s basically what she did do just days ago.

  “Oh, so you’ve figured me out so quickly, have you?” Her gaze trails over my body. “You’re a handyman, too?”