“Pub’s fine.” He thumbed a hand behind him. “Amelia lives here. We closed late, and I just brought her home. You two on patrol tonight?”
Bodhi nodded. “We’ve had a bunch of thefts in the area and were hoping to catch the bastard. Got a tip they might strike tonight.”
Hector frowned. Was Amelia in danger? He’d have to insist she take a cab home from work or walk her home himself on the nights she closed, regardless of whether or not he was closing with her. “Thefts?”
“Seems random, but we know it’s not. They’ve been hitting the neighborhood for a while now. You hear anything about this?”
Hector shook his head. He heard a lot working in a pub, but nothing about theft. “I’ll keep an ear open at the pub. I thought I saw someone lurking just before you two got here, but it was just a shadow.”
Bodhi and Sully glanced at each other, then Sully spoke. “What did the shadow look like?”
Hector shook his head. “Didn’t see a face. Just heard a noise and thought someone was running away. Sorry, I don’t have more than that.” He gestured to the gated courtyard and building. “Do the residents know about the thefts?”
Sully shrugged. “Word gets around, but not sure if they would know. I’ll stop by to see Persy before I get off shift. Make sure they and the residents are taking precautions.” He shook the gate. “At least they’re keeping this locked. That’ll help but locks are easy to jimmy for motivated criminals.”
Persy? He was on a first name basis with Amelia’s property manager? He wasn’t gonna ask. “Thanks, man.” He held out his hand and Sully shook it.
“Need a ride? Policy means you’d have to ride in the back, but I’ve got time to swing by.”
His prosthetics were pinching, as he hadn’t had a chance to take them off all day, so he nodded. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
He slid into the back of the car, thankful it had been Sully to come upon him in the dark of early morning. If an attacker had come upon him—or even a different set of cops—it could have been a much different story. After he’d bought the pub, he’d made a point of visiting the closest police stations, so they’d all know who he was in case there was ever any trouble. That he was also a close friend of Prince Lorenzo—and they all knew it—didn’t hurt, either, though he’d never capitalize on that friendship. Still, he’d recognized the derision some people held for the royalty. Anti-monarchists were everywhere, even on the police force.
Several minutes later, Hector was back at the pub. After a wave goodbye, he turned to the door closest to the pub’s entrance, which led to his apartment. During the renovations, he’d considered building a staircase that ran from inside the pub to his place, but decided he wanted some separation. Some days, when he’d been on his feet too long, he regretted the extra few steps, but otherwise it worked for him.
He was limping more than usual as he made his way upstairs and into his apartment, messaging Amelia as he did. When she didn’t respond, he hoped that meant she’d gone to sleep.
He flipped on the light and tossed his keys on a table. He hadn’t bought much furniture, so it was sparse for a one-bedroom apartment and roomy. He’d been too busy dealing with the renovations, the re-opening, and running the pub to bother with his living space.
He mostly lived at the bar, anyway.
Wincing slightly, he moved to the bedroom. He reached behind his head, grabbed his shirt near his nape, and yanked it off. With a neatness that had been ingrained in the army, he didn’t throw it on the floor, but put it on top of his washer where a pile of dirty clothes and towels was already waiting.
The first deliveries would come at seven, so he only had a couple hours to sleep and skipped his shower. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he sat on the bed with a groan.
He knew better than this. He knew he had to take a break during the day and give his stumps a rest, too. But he didn’t want to fail the pub, not when Lorenzo and others had put such faith in him. His staff was counting on him, too; if he failed they’d be out of a job. Hector had to work hard to make the pub successful.
He stretched back and lifted his ass, then pulled his pants down before his ass hit the bed again. He left the pants around his thighs, then lifted them at the hem. Usually, he’d take his shoes off, but he couldn’t be bothered. It was hard to put shoes onto this prosthetic. Since it looked like his next set would likely take several more months to arrive, he’d go and get his socket adjusted in the meantime. When he did, he’d also have the doc shave the foot down a little; then he’d be able to slide shoes on and off more easily.
For now, he removed the prosthetic from the right leg, then the left. He propped them next to his side table and took off the socks and liners that covered his stumps. He peeled them off with a wince and found red, throbbing flesh underneath.
Shit. He wished he’d thought to grab an ice pack, or even a cold cloth, before he’d sat down but he hadn’t. He eyed the wheelchair he kept folded near the bed.
He should use it. If he didn’t, he’d be risking making his body worse. Yet, every fucking time he sat in that wheelchair again, he felt as though his life were moving backward. He’d be suddenly transported back nearly six years when he was newly legless, completely fucking depressed, and wishing he’d died in the jungle with most of his team.
Suck it up, Perez. That’s what Low would tell him, and he’d be right.
He pulled the wheelchair out, opened it, and hopped inside. He wheeled into the kitchen and lamented the fact his ice packs were in the freezer. He had an older fridge with a top-freezer; when he renovated the apartment, the fridge was the first thing he’d change, so that he’d have a bottom-freezer more accessible to him in times like this.
He grabbed the counter near the fridge and levered himself onto it, opened up the freezer, and grabbed the packs. Then, he moved back across the counter and hopped into the chair. Thank fuck he’d built up his upper arms over the last year; he’d have been useless without that strength.
After he finally situated himself in the bed again, he took off his boxers. He loved sleeping in the nude. He hadn’t been able to in the army nor later during his recovery, but now he could, so he did. He put some lotion on his stumps, followed by the ice packs, and groaned at the relief he felt.
He threw an arm over his eyes and drifted away thinking of Amelia. His hand slid down his body and idly fisted his cock, and he lazily stroked himself. Most of his thoughts were of them naked, many of them in this bed, his office, and other fun places. He wouldn’t seek his release tonight; he’d wait until his shower in the morning.
He’d given her a week to think about things, and that was all she was getting. Yet, that didn’t mean he couldn’t stop by, spend time with her, or make out with her some more.
He was going to use that time to prove he was the man for her.
She was off tomorrow, but the day after, well, then he’d start making those moves. One move he could make was with food, as she seemed to like it when he brought snacks or meals over on the nights they met.
He grinned. She actually found it annoying, which was cute, so that’s why he’d kept doing it. But she devoured the food he’d brought all the same. He got the sense her grocery budget was pretty small, so he’d wanted to supplement that. He’d step that up over the next week, maybe even cook for her. It would give him an excuse to buy groceries and take them to her place.
Yes, step one: feed her. The way to her heart could very well be through her stomach.
Step two: fix shit around her apartment. He’d seen more than once something broken or not working right—leaky faucets, squeaky doors—that she never complained about or that the management company ignored. He’d fix those, too.
Finally, step three: more time making out and feeling those curves of hers.
Definitely, step three.
The rest he’d play by ear and give her what she needed when she needed it, whether she wanted his help or not.
He gave his cock one l
ast hard stroke and let go. Though it was difficult, he managed to calm down enough to fall asleep, dreaming of his Amelia.
Chapter Ten
Millie woke up to the sound of her phone ringing. She jerked up, her head heavy and throbbing, a pair of earrings stuck to her face and a bracelet in her hands. She’d felt like she’d barely slept at all.
“Ugh.” She brushed off the earrings, dropped the bracelet, staggered to her feet, then stumbled across the room to her purse. She vaguely noticed there was a message waiting from Hector: his simple Home, baby from last night.
Bleary-eyed, she answered at the next ring; it was him. “Hello?”
“Morning, Amelia.”
She sighed and staggered to her bed. “Why are you calling me?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “Because I like you.”
Her heart fluttered, even as her groggy mind tried to wake up. “Go away.”
He chuckled. “You could hang up.”
“That’s rude.” She moved some of the containers on her bed, laid down, and sunk into her pillows. God, they were so comfortable.
“And telling me to go away isn’t?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
His voice came out like a song. “Amelia?”
“Hmm?” She curled under the covers. Just a few minutes, then she’d get up and face the day.
“Baby?”
Her voice was muffled slightly by the pillows. “Why are you up so early?”
“Had some deliveries starting at seven. They just left.”
“Seven?”
“Yeah. It’s around eight now.”
“Eight?” Eight. Eight in the morning.
Her eyes suddenly popped open, her heart racing in triple time, and her mind cleared instantly. “Eight! Shit! I’m late!”
She tried to move off the bed but got tangled in the covers and fell over the side. “Oof!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” She pulled the blanket off her head, her voice going uncharacteristically high. “Nothing. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”
He sounded like he was trying to hold back a laugh. “You hurt yourself?”
She rubbed her bottom, but she couldn’t tell him that hurt. “No.”
He chuckled. “All right. You late for your show?”
She staggered to her feet, shoving the blanket to the side. “Yes! I’ll never make it there in time.”
“Where is it again?”
“County fair in Vernee.”
“That’s an hour away.”
“I know! The fair opens at nine-thirty. I’ve got to go. Bye.” She hung up without waiting for his reply.
Shit, shit, shit!
She rushed around, ignored her ringing phone, and took the fastest shower of her life. She had to wash her hair—it still felt sticky from her fall to the pub floor—which meant her hair would dry wild and curly, but there was nothing for it. She tugged it into a loose braid, decided against breakfast—no time, and she didn’t have any food in the house anyway—but did take some headache meds and made some tea for the road.
Then the phone rang again.
She ignored it and grabbed her socks. She sat down to put them on, then groaned when the phone rang yet again. Irritated, she didn’t even glance at the screen as she picked up. She just tucked it between her ear and shoulder and continued putting on her socks. “Hector, I need to go!”
“Miss Asti?” a female—someone definitely not Hector—said.
Shit. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Yes, this is Millie Asti.”
“This is the nursing home calling about your mother.”
All the air seemed to get sucked out of the room. “Oh?”
“Yes, your mother had a rough night, I’m afraid. The doctors aren’t sure how much longer she’ll have. You should come by today if you can.”
Oh, man.
Her forehead fell into her sock-filled hand. Should she skip the fair? Her brain ran frantic sums, then re-ran them since she was still a little groggy and uncaffeinated.
Her bottom line was harsh. This wasn’t the first time she’d gotten one of these calls, but it could be the last call like this she got. Still, she couldn’t skip the fair; she needed the money too much. So much of the debt she had was to provide care for her mother, and events like this fair helped her pay it off, a little at a time.
Did she go see her mother and skip the fair, or work to help pay for her mother’s care, then go visit her later?
Maybe it was an easy choice for someone else, but as she was really fucking poor, it wasn’t as easy for her.
“I—all right. I’ve got to work today, but I’ll come by this afternoon.” The fair ended at four, then pack up time, then drive back time meant more like early evening.
“It’ll probably be more like six, actually.”
The voice on the other end got tight. “Well, if that’s the best you can do, then all right.”
The best she could do? The best she could do?
Why was her best never good enough? Why was she never good enough?
Her mother had already thrown her away once. She didn’t even remember who Millie was now. Millie was working her ass off, not only so she could keep a roof over her own head, but so she could keep a roof over her mother’s.
Her breath was shaky and staggered, her knees weak. It always took her time to recover from one of these phone calls, longer for an in-person visit. Catching sight of the time, she didn’t have minutes or hours to spend breaking down, then building up her walls again.
She couldn’t afford to get emotional. She couldn’t have that sadness or frustration on her face all day, nor the exhaustion—emotional and physical—in her body. She had to tough it out. If people saw that on her face, that desperation, they’d avoid buying from her, and she wouldn’t even get a pity sale from it. She had to be bright and cheery.
She couldn’t afford to cry, either, because she’d be red-eyed and puffy—or more red-eyed and puffy than from just a lack of sleep. No one bought jewelry from someone who looked like that, nor from someone who looked as though they’d been crying. People tended to avoid others who were upset or needed help. She’d learned that the hard way, growing up with a mother who decided she didn’t want her, and a father who made it clear he never wanted her in the first place.
No, she had to suck it up and put this aside for later.
Compartmentalization. Something she’d been forced to get better at.
She said goodbye and hung up.
Since she couldn’t let go, she shut down. She’d faked it before. At the pub, at a show—it was all the same. Act like nothing touched her, that words didn’t matter, that her financial situation wasn’t completely crushing her, that she was perfectly content on her own.
Alone.
She sat, elbows to her knees, her hands fisted in her hair. She closed her eyes and took several long breaths. Slightly steadier, she plugged in her phone to charge, then packed up her kit, displays, and all the jewelry she hoped to sell into an easily maneuverable suitcase.
The fair she was going to was quite big and often packed; she’d been lucky to secure a spot. She’d had to pay a high exhibitor’s fee—another reason she had to go the fair first rather than see her mother, because she couldn’t afford to lose that fee—but she really thought she could recoup that cost and then some.
Bottom line: it was too much money to pass up.
No, she didn’t have time for tears today.
She’d grabbed her ever-ready foldable table and was lugging the cart downstairs when the latch on her suitcase popped open, and a bin of jewelry went flying.
Considering how her day had started, this seemed about right.
At least no one saw you being an idiot this time. She packed up her things again, jimmying the suitcase to stay shut—she’d have to think about buying a new one, if she could afford it—and went to her car. She’d never been able to drive to the pub because
there was only one parking spot in the alley behind it—which Hector used—and street parking was too expensive, so she always walked to work.
Though the morning was quiet, she barely noticed the others nearby, including the car filled with three men who began to follow her out of the city.
Millie smiled as she handed over the small bag to her last customer. “Here you go. My card’s in the bag and it has my website on it. I do custom work, too, so pop by and take a look.”
“We’ll do that, thanks.”
Millie waved to the two women as they walked away, then glanced around. The crowd had thinned out considerably, but it had been bustling earlier. Though she’d woken up late, she’d still made it with some time to spare, so she’d taken a quick walk by the other vendors before she’d set up. There were only two other jewelry sellers; this had been a good sign, as most of the time, there were at least five or more.
She closed and locked her cash box. Most people used credit cards these days and she had a card reader that attached to her phone, but she’d stupidly left her phone at home charging. Even though that had cut down on some sales, she’d still made back her exhibitor’s fee and plenty more.
The days were getting longer, but dark still fell early, as it did now. Many vendors had already packed and left; there were only a few remaining. She began packing up when she heard voices approaching. Thinking it could be a final customer, she turned with a friendly smile.
Instead, she was met with a fist.
She cried out.
Then another fist. And another.
She screamed as her glasses flew off. She went down, her head hitting the table. Her hands grasped for purchase, but only got hold of the tablecloth, pulling it and the rest of her jewelry down on top of her.
The acrid taste of fear coated her, consuming her.
Run! Run!
She tried to get up but they kicked her ribs, and she went down again.
A howl of pain escaped her.
Without her glasses, it was hard to make out who was attacking her.
Fight! Fight!
She tried to kick them, grab them, maul them, anything, but they overpowered her.
Rush (Hector & Millie) (Seaside Valleria #1) Page 14