Bound to the Bounty Hunter

by Hayson Manning

  Ah, no.

  Sophie sat in traffic, one foot on the accelerator, the other on the brake, her car protesting with a bone-shaking rattle. She sent a prayer upward to any mechanics in heaven, hanging around, discussing crankshafts.

  The Viking had left his shift twenty minutes ago and the hot African-American dude had pulled in behind her.

  Miss Sub sashayed into her head. She’d arrive at Harlan’s office in a crisp white business suit, a leather bag swinging from her gym-toned shoulders. Slender and petite, her straight, long blond hair would be in a high ponytail, bouncing against her toned shoulders. Six-inch heels on her feet. Large sunglasses shading her big blue eyes.

  A UPS van stopped unexpectedly beside her. A harassed, brown-clothed driver dove out the door and ran into a building.

  Sophie didn’t delay. Her foot left the brake, and her protesting car shot forward. She found a gap in the traffic and waved her thanks to the cars behind her. She took a left, another left, and ducked into an underground parking lot. She drove down three floors and parked between two cars in the long-term parking section and listened for a screech of tires.

  Nothing.

  She checked her watch.

  Damn.

  She had a burning, irrational need to catch a glimpse at Harlan’s latest, but she’d need to hurry if she was going to retrieve her equipment and get dinner prepared in time. Titus stuck to a schedule that became stricter as Sally deteriorated. Thrown off routine, Sally became agitated and distressed, which seemed to make her condition worse.

  Sophie grabbed a hoodie from the backseat of her car, pulled it on, and buried her face into the side of the fabric. She exited through a gray door and blinked back sunlight. She kept her head down and wound through streets toward Harlan’s office. Her hunch had paid off. His Viper was parked on the street.

  She walked to a park across from the building, where a large food truck was setting up. The scent of hot chicken, ham, and mashed potatoes and gravy had her stomach rumbling.

  A man adjusted a blackboard showing a menu with the choice of a ham or chicken and roast vegetable meal followed by fruit and custard. A hairdresser would be on hand for anyone wanting a trim, which seemed odd for a food truck.

  She briefly wondered about how the interview with Miss Sub was going. Would she be on her knees, head bowed, waiting for his command? Would she be on his desk, her skirt pulled over her hips, gasping when he rammed home?

  Sophie dug her hands deeper into the hoodie’s pcokets.

  A harassed suit scooted past her, mobile phone to his ear. Women with floaty dresses and spiky summer sandals that would have Annie sighing drifted past in a pack of fresh scent. Mothers hummed with efficient strides, dragging their protesting children toward stores with the bribe of a fast-food lunch keeping the gripes to scowls.

  Sophie swiped her finger across the screen of her phone and read an incoming text.

  Nice maneuver. Give me your address before Harlan has my balls.

  Sophie’s fingers flew across the screen.

  Sophie: Keep your balls. Harlan doesn’t need to know. I’m on a case.

  She stood as Harlan stepped out of his building and started toward the park with determined strides, no blonde attached to his arm. A group of admiring women poofed their hair; two turned on their heels, dazzling smiles on their faces.

  Harlan didn’t glance their way.

  Crap.

  She made it to a bench, sat, and pretended to play on her phone. All the while she had an eye on Harlan, her muscles bunched and ready to flee.

  Had he finished his meeting with a small sub? Is that why he was all loose-limbed and with a smile on his face because he’d eaten?

  Ugh.

  She turned her face farther into her sweatshirt, trying to rid herself of the image that flashed into her mind of Harlan with his mouth between a woman’s legs.

  As stupid as it was, she wanted to throw something at him.

  Harlan headed toward the food truck, a large canvas bag in his hand.

  A panty-dropping grin transformed his face.

  Probably got panties stuffed into his pockets.

  She managed not to choke.

  Harlan slapped the menu guy on the shoulder and was rewarded with a back-clapping man hug.

  People started arriving, drawn by the scent of the food. They stood patiently in line waiting their turn.

  Sophie stared at the line of people taking their plate of food with thanks. No money was exchanging hands. This was a soup kitchen. She looked closer. A soup kitchen Harlan was, at the very least, familiar with, judging by the way people shook his hand and thanked him. Sophie’s heart hitched.

  Harlan helped an elderly man, shuffling forward, his back bent with arthritis, his feet visible through his shoes. The man looked like he might have been good friends with Moses.

  “Clarence, you’ll lose your feet in those shoes. I know you said you didn’t need them, but I found an old pair at the back of my wardrobe. Size eight.”

  The old man looked down at Harlan’s feet then down at his.

  “You ain’t taking a size eight, Mr. Harlan. Yous has to be at least a ten, maybe eleven.”

  Harlan shrugged. “They’ve been there for a while.”

  The man looked up at Harlan, his face a roadmap of age. “I don’t want no handouts. I’m getting on my feet any day now.”

  “I know you are. I want your feet to make it.”

  The man took the canvas bag from Harlan, a shoebox sticking out the top.

  Harlan nodded. “You’ve got my number, right?”

  The old man nodded.

  “You need anything, anytime, call me.”

  The old man nodded. “I’ll do that, Mr. Harlan. I’ll do that.”

  He smiled. “You getting a trim, Clarence?”

  The old man ran his hand across his head. “I think I will take a trim. Make sure I’m looking my best for when Miss Devine calls.”

  Harlan squeezed his shoulder.

  “If you could have a word to young DeMilo.” Clarence gestured with his head to where a young boy who looked no older than twelve shuffled his feet and looked longingly toward the van. “His mom’s on a bender, and there’s no money for food. My guess is he’s feeding his sister before feeding himself. He’s skin and bone.”

  “Leave it with me.”

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Harlan.” The man looked down at the bag then wiped his hand across his eyes.

  Harlan clapped him on the back. “Don’t let anyone know, Clarence, it’ll blow my cred.”

  Harlan’s head jerked and swiveled left then right, scanning. He eventually turned away.

  Sophie stood, her heart jackhammering in her chest, and walked away, head bowed. At the edge of the park, she turned to see Harlan sitting next to DeMilo, the boy inhaling a plate of food.

  “Wow,” she breathed out with a wobbly sigh. She pressed the image of Harlan on a new, fresh memory where she wrapped it in delicate parchment.

  She walked toward the underground garage taking a different route. Alert and vigilant but deep in thought. Something she couldn’t quite define pierced her heart and burrowed deep, making her insides unsteady.

  She’d researched Harlan. He’d been a highly regarded and successful bounty hunter before opening Franco Security as a one-man band. According to the company bio on the web, the company had grown to fifteen highly skilled operatives trained in personal and business security, espionage, and bounty hunting. Harlan had trained extensively with operatives overseas, but nothing personal about where he’d grown up. No siblings, no education listed.

  He’d said there was Sophie the PI and another Sophie, and in a way he was right. But there was way more to Harlan Franco than he let on. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel.

  Talk about the whole pot-kettle thing, but I wouldn’t mind finding out about this side of Harlan.

  “The man has more layers than an onion,” she murmured.

  If the equipment sta
yed a little longer at the playground, it wouldn’t be hurting anyone. She could extend the bet while she explored this side of Harlan that she wanted to know.

  Purely for professional reasons.

  After exiting the garage, she’d taken care of the shopping for dinner, sticking to the busiest stores she could find. As far as she could tell, there’d been no tails.

  She’d taken the freeway home, arriving to find Harlan’s car in her driveway. The smoldering African-American dude, the hot Viking, and the man of the hour stood in a group, not hugging, but looking like they wanted to rip something apart. As she pulled in behind Harlan’s car, three pairs of pissed-off eyes swung in her direction.

  Guess the person they want to rip apart is me.

  Chapter Eight

  Sophie plastered on a perfected happy smile that made her cheeks ache and exited the car.

  “Howdy folks.” Key in hand, she walked to her front door.

  At the scowl on Harlan’s face she unwrapped the memory of the man at the soup kitchen and let it envelop her, before she carefully stored it away and took a satisfying breath.

  “Why the hell did you ditch Zeb?”

  “Oh, is that the hottie’s name?” She turned and shot Zeb a sunny smile. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  Zeb grinned.

  Harlan practically threw open her front door before she’d turned the handle.

  “Why’d you ditch Zeb?” His words could grate steel.

  “Because…” She lifted her chin.

  “Because?” A cold glint transformed his eyes to cyborg blue.

  “Because you can’t keep ordering me around and expecting me to do what you want.” Sophie swept past him into her kitchen, heaving plastic shopping bags onto the neat-as-a-pin counter. “I wasn’t tailed. I checked. I don’t need you in my life 24/7. I am a trained private detective. I’m not a client.”

  She eyed the sparkly sink that could be used as a mirror. Towels were folded on the counter ready to be distributed by her into respective drawers. Mail sat in tidy stacks sorted by content.

  Sophie sighed and flicked the top utility bill onto the counter.

  A tick worried his left eye.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Out and about.” She leaned against the fridge door, a magnet in the shape of a dog digging into her back. “Where were you?”

  “In the office. Working lunch.”

  “Really? You didn’t leave your office. Just worked through?”

  Nothing moved on his face.

  “Yep.”

  I wonder if he had a meeting at all.

  He advanced until their breaths clashed.

  “You can’t ditch the detail. This is about—”

  She pushed up higher on her feet until they were impossibly close, her temperature rising. “This is about me not being one of your ‘yes master’ girls and doing what you say.”

  “Fuck, Sophie, you’ve got to listen to me.” Harlan swept his hand through his messy hair, making it messier and sexier. “I’m out this afternoon. Please don’t ditch the detail.”

  “Is it Thor?”

  Confused eyes cut to hers. “Thor?”

  “Yeah, Thor. The hot, blond Viking he-man you’ve got on your staff.”

  He rubbed his chin. “I assume you’re talking about Israel?”

  “I don’t know his name, but don’t send him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s distracting,” she lied.

  He stood there a moment, looking like he wanted to hog-tie her.

  “I’m out, I’ll see you tonight,” he said.

  “Whatever,” she said on a long breath.

  After Harlan closed the door behind him, Sophie prepared the lamb and vegetables for tonight, then set the timer on the oven. When she walked back into the kitchen, rosemary, garlic, and her secret herb ingredient, sage, would fill the room, and the roast would be falling off the bone.

  “Time to get to work, Pong. I need the distraction and the money.”

  Pongo waddled along beside her to her desk. She opened a manila folder and reread her case notes, looking for something she’d missed.

  Suzie West, also known as “Slow-Screw Suzie,” had hit the jackpot when she’d met her husband-to-be while working as a lap dancer in Vegas. A VP for a large accounting firm, Jim West had fallen hard for Suzie and treated his new wife like a queen.

  Beth had been born a year after leaving Vegas, and Suzie had packed a bag and walked out on her husband and daughter six months later. In a note, later verified as authentic, she’d asked to be left alone. Jim, her heartbroken father, tried to do his best for his daughter, but he became a shell of a man who passed when Beth turned eighteen. Now twenty-five, Beth was searching for her mother.

  So far, no one by the name of Suzie West née Jones with a matching birth date had been registered as dead in the state of Colorado. She’d sent out requests with the woman’s birth date to other states. Results were trickling in, none of them a hit so far. She was still in the process of contacting Suzie’s known friends and family. So far, nothing. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, and Sophie’s gut feeling told her that she might not be delivering the good news her client hoped for.

  Sophie stood in a large, warm, messy room. Books, some upside down, were crammed into a bookcase. Magazines crowded a table. A multitude of framed photos dotted the walls showing a couple with their arms entwined, laughing.

  Sunlight poured through the window and captured what looked like an art project of stained glass, sending spears of green, orange, and pink colliding in a waterfall of color down the opposite white wall. Sophie’s socked feet scrunched on the faded beige carpet.

  Love and memories filled the room. She could almost taste the joy of Christmas Day, the dried-out turkey on Thanksgiving and the laughter that gravy would fix it all. The sadness that Beth didn’t have a mother around to share the joy of her first child. The room was wrapped in the fabric of family.

  Something pulled at Sophie’s heart. A twinge that if things had been different, if her father’s cons had been found out sooner, they would have stayed in one place, and she could have had a little slice of this pie.

  Don’t let anyone in, Buttercup.

  Her father’s words floated unwanted into her head, and she pushed them straight out.

  Beth walked into the room, wiping her hands down her legs. “I thought she’d never go down. I’ve been up since four trying to figure out why she won’t stop crying.” She smiled uneasily. “I think if you can survive the leaky boobs, evacuated body fluids, and not go insane, it must get easier, right?”

  Sophie stared at Beth, having no words, the whole female dynamic still lost on her. Beth stood in front of her, her dark eyes smiling, hair ratty in a messy bun, T-shirt over black leggings, purple crescents under her eyes. She looked back into the room she’d walked from. The lines melted from her eyes.

  “She’s the reason I wanted to find out what happened to my mom. Now that my daughter’s in my life, I feel like there’s this box in my past that isn’t checked off, and I get fixated on it.” She hugged her torso.

  “I know,” Sophie said, a wry smile touching her lips.

  Beth’s head tilted to the side, observing Sophie. “Yeah, I think you do.”

  A clock somewhere in the house counted down time.

  Beth waved her to sit down.

  Sophie perched on the edge of her seat.

  Beth starting folding laundry, her face wistful. “It wasn’t the big picture stuff I missed, I don’t think. It was the little things. Mother and daughter day at school. Poor Dad, he sat at the back, mortified. I envied girls having a mom around to tell them that putting Vaseline on your face to make it sparkly, which you’d read in a magazine, probably didn’t mean half an inch worth. Or the fact that it’s pretty water-resistant. Not what you’re going after on a first date.”

  “Handing your father a note from your PE teacher that you need a bra?” Sophie pressed her hands
to her cheeks. “My father looked like he’d rather have an up close and personal with Satan than try and pick out a bra.” She smiled. “Luckily a woman with a measuring tape spotted me. The next thing I knew I’d been ushered into a cubicle and measured. She helped me pick out a selection. She patted my shoulder, hugged me, and smelled of rose petals.”

  Beth’s face melted. “Yeah, it’s the little things. Like your mom knowing what brand of pad and tampon to get without having to write specific instructions for your dad, which is torture no teen should have to go through.”

  “Or knowing not to flush five tampons at a time when you can’t figure out that stupid “how to insert them” diagram, then tell your father you’d blocked the toilet.”

  Beth laughed. “Or what everyone else is wearing in school. The cool shoes or the specific brand of jeans. By the time I did get them the trend had shifted and yet again I rocked the has-been look.”

  Sophie smiled, lost in a watercolor memory. “Or having something girly on your birthday. Something pretty for your hair or a strawberry lip gloss instead of a practical book on growing herbs.” Sophie grinned. “Call me the Cilantro Queen. I can grow that sucker anywhere.”

  Beth put her hand over her mouth, her eyes dancing. She walked to an iPad and stroked her finger across the glass, showing a beaming older couple holding a baby swaddled in a blue blanket.

  “My husband was raised by his grandparents, who aren’t around anymore. His parents have been in and out of rehab for years and have no interest in getting clean. My dad’s gone…that’s why I’m doing this. If anything happened to me, I want Hannah to have a family tree. Some sort of roots.”

  Sophie nodded and, when Beth didn’t continue, she carefully prodded. “But there’s more, isn’t there?”

  Sophie startled at the raw emotion that twisted Beth’s features before she ironed them flat.

  “If she’s still alive, I want to know why.” Beth paused, her voice quivered.