by JA Huss
“He blames me for his bikes going missing,” Drake yells again. “And he stole my shit to get even.”
“Drake,” I growl. “Your shit is shit. Look around, asshole, do you think I need to steal your crappy bikes? You’re nobody. Those seven bikes stolen from my showroom are barely a blip on my bottom line. It’s called insurance, dumbass.”
He lunges at me, plows right through the little girly cop and sends her crashing backwards. The whole garage sucks in a collective breath as she skids across the polished concrete floor and comes to a stop against Ryan’s leg. Ryan leans over and extends his hand to help her up. She’s beet red with embarrassment, but she takes his hand.
And then Scott is slapping the cuffs on Drake. “You have the right to remain silent…”
We all just stand there as Scott pushes Drake out the door, leaving the little cop behind to wrap things up.
“Um,” she starts. “I’m… sorry.” And then she bolts out the door after her partner.
“What the fuck was that?” Ronin says from the doorway.
We all swing our heads in his direction. “Dude!” I laugh. “Insanity! Fucking Drake tried to say we robbed him or some shit. What’re you doing back, anyway?”
“You got me all riled up about Rook being pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Ford asks. “Since when? She never said anything to me about being pregnant.”
“Why would she tell you before she tells me, asshole?”
“Because we’re best friends. She tells me all kinds of shit about you, Ronin.”
Ronin is winding up to fight, so I stick my arm between them. “He’s fucking with you, Ronin. You’ve known him for ten years, and every time you fall for his shit.”
Director Larry bursts through the door now, and he’s the one who’s all riled up. “Holy cow! This is gonna be the best season ever!” He claps Ford on the back and Ford bats his hand away and steps aside. “We got all that on tape. Even”—he looks over at Ronin—“the pregnancy. Holy shit, if Rook is pregnant, our ratings will go through the roof!”
Luckily Ford pushes Larry out the door before Ronin knocks his teeth out.
I grab Ronin’s shirt sleeve and pull him outside. Scott and little cop are still busy arresting Drake in the parking lot, so we head across the street and start walking down Maple towards the shops so that the noise of lunchtime pedestrians and traffic drowns out our voices over any potential listening devices.
“We need to pull that bot out of that shop, like now, Ronin. This shit is getting crazy. I mean, who the fuck is in town stealing motorcycles? And why?”
“I dunno,” he says. “But we might have the whole thing on camera from the bot. We can’t risk going through footage parked in that neighborhood, so pulling it is the only option if we want to see who did it. I’ll go scout out the area tonight. Alone,” he adds. “You and Ford have already been made, so I’m the only option. Then we’ll come up with a plan tomorrow. Let’s just hope that little dick Drake doesn’t suddenly get smart and sweep his place for bugs.”
“Fuck.”
“We’ll figure it out. Just keep cool, man, OK?”
I look over at Ronin. “I’m always cool.”
“Yeah,” he agrees as we turn around and start walking back.
But I know what he’s thinking. I’m not always cool. Because I’m the one who lost his cool and shot that fucker up in Boulder. I’m the one who had us all staring at a murder one charge and twenty years to life in prison.
And I’m starting to get that feeling again. That twitchy feeling that says a storm is coming. That says I need to prepare.
Because not only do I have to worry about keeping Ronin and Ford safe, now I have to worry about Rook. And Ashleigh. And Kate.
But thank fucking God, my Bombshell is safe. No one knows about us. No one knows how much I love her. And that’s the whole reason I continue to break her heart, time after time after time.
I never want this shit we’re in to touch her again.
Chapter Ten
VERONICA
“Well,” I say back, still standing at the base of the stairs. I should be walking up them, going inside. But this stranger has stopped me dead. “You found me.”
He adjusts his coat. It’s a long black trench, pressed crisp, and looks like it cost a million bucks. In fact, this guy screams money. And then he steps towards the stairs and descends. Slowly. Like he’s trying to make an impression on me.
It’s working. I’m just not sure what kind of impression he’s leaving.
Handsome? Yes.
Intimidating? You bet.
Dangerous? Absolutely.
When he reaches the bottom he looks me over. Like, not just the look-over. I get that a lot. That look says I’m a pervert and I’m imagining my dick between your tits right now.
No. Not this guy. This guy gives me a look that says pay attention.
And right now that look he’s giving me is making me wish he was just leering and looking for a mental image the next time he wanks himself off.
He stands there like he’s waiting for something, and I have time to take him in. Short, styled brown hair. Green eyes. Expensive suit that looks like it was designed specifically for his body. Which is large, easily the same size as my brother Vic’s. I bet he’s got muscles for miles underneath those clothes. He extends his hand. “I’m Mr. Mansi, owner of this”—he waves another hand towards the building in a dismissive gesture—“lovely piece of property.”
“Oh.” I laugh a little with relief. “Got it. I signed the monthly lease with Mr. Golden when I rented this place. So sorry, I just didn’t realize who you were.” I look around at the chaos of workers and take stock the way Spencer taught me back when we first started dating. “Where is Mr. Golden?” I drag my gaze from the commotion and stare Mr. Mansi in the face. “I don’t see him.”
It’s only then that I realize I’m still shaking his hand. For several seconds. He’s looking down at our grip with an amused smile and I pull my hand back self-consciously.
“He’s been… relieved of his position. I’m taking over from here. And that’s why I needed to talk to you. He should not have rented you an apartment in this building, Miss Vaughn. The first floor is contaminated with asbestos.”
I gasp. Holy shit, asbestos! That’s as bad as hepatitis in my book.
Mr. Mansi puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s OK, it’s not airborne. It’s not been disturbed. But it needs to be cleaned out, and I’m afraid that means you can’t stay here. You can’t go back inside now until they’re done. They’ve already started ripping it out. I’ve been trying to call you for several hours, and well, we couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Oh.” I breathe out some relief. “OK, so how long will it take? I guess I can stay with my dad.” He smiles an indulgent smile and all of a sudden I get it. “You’re kicking me out, aren’t you? For good?” I turn and kick the wall. “Goddammit.”
“Your lease was month to month and—”
I shove my helmet on my head and walk over to my bike and swing my leg over. I’m just about to twist the key when he places his hand over mine. I look up at him and he’s smiling. Asshole.
“Miss Vaughn, can you take the helmet off so I can explain your accommodation arrangements?”
“My what?” I echo through my helmet.
He knocks on the helmet and I slip it off and rest it in my lap. “My what?” I repeat.
“I own several apartment buildings in the area. I’ve arranged for one to be provided for you. Would you like to see it?”
“Uh…” What am I supposed to say? “OK,” I manage after a few silent seconds.
“Come with me, I’ll drive you there.”
“No,” I say with a small laugh. “I don’t think so. I’ll follow you on the bike.”
He looks up at the sky and makes a face. “It’s getting cold.”
“I’m good,” I assure him as I push the helmet back down on my head.
; And then he nods and walks over to the alley. I start the bike and back out, then meet up with him at his big black Dodge Challenger. He revs the engine a little, making the whole car sway and rumble with power.
That is sorta hot.
He nods at me and pulls out slowly. I catch him checking his rear-view to make sure I’m following. We cross College Avenue and weave our way up a few streets, not far from Spencer’s new shop. He pulls up to an underground parking garage and we wait for the gate to open for us. I follow him inside the dimly lit garage and he parks the car in a reserved spot near the door to the elevator. There’s a few other cars, sporadically spaced. But the place is pretty empty. Everyone must be at work. I pull up next to him, shut the bike off and engage the stand, pulling off my gloves and then my helmet, before swinging my leg over the bike.
I feel sorta badass while I do this. I mean seriously, I’m riding a custom Shrike Bike. I’ve got my old faded blue jeans on. I’m wearing Spencer’s painted leather jacket, and my four-hundred-dollar Frye boots are the biker icing on the cake. I’m like one hundred percent hotness. I know this because this Mansi guy’s eyeballs never leave my body.
I wait for some sort of direction, but he waits too. “Well?” I finally ask. “You want me to live in the garage or what? Let’s get this show on the road.”
He waves me forward, then a beep sounds as the lock disengages and the doors to the lower-level lobby open. It’s pretty nice in here. Couple couches off to the side. Nice tiles on the floor, a rug. The elevator dings and we both enter and watch the doors close behind us.
“This is weird,” I say, mostly to myself, but also to the stranger who now has me alone inside an elevator.
“Apparently not weird enough to stop you from taking this ride,” he quips.
“No, not that weird.” I look up at him and I’m about to elaborate but the elevator stops and the doors ding out a request to exit. “Well, that was quick, at least.”
“It’s the second floor. I’m sorry, that’s all I have available besides the penthouse. But at least it’s not the ground floor. I’m sure you’d feel safer on the second story.”
I say nothing to that. I’m not worried about being attacked. I mean, yeah, it could happen. And I’m a girl, so most men are a lot stronger than me. But I’m not just any girl. I’m Veronica Vaughn. I’ve been fighting boys my whole life. And maybe being alone with this guy is a bad move, but a whole shitload of people saw me leave my apartment with him. He says he’s the owner of my building that is temporarily condemned for asbestos removal. I have no red flashing lights for this, so I’m gonna ride it out.
He stops at a door, pushes a key in, then opens it wide so I can enter. I do.
He flips on the lights as he enters behind me and I walk forward into a stunning apartment. “It’s furnished?”
“This is the model for this complex. All the units are sold, save for the penthouse. So it’s no longer being used. It hasn’t been listed yet, so I’ll hold off on selling until you figure out what to do.”
“What to do? I’m not sure I follow. I get to go home once that whole removal thing is over and come up with an alternative place to live, right?”
He smiles one of those indulgent smiles people save for idiots and my blood boils. “No, I’m sorry. We’re going to remodel the entire building. Your apartment was not for rent, but the landlord”—he practically seethes that word—“rented you the apartment, took your money, and ran off with it. It was a mistake. So you’ll have to find other accommodations immediately.” He pauses to assess my reaction, but I hold it in. “But feel free to stay here as long as you need to.”
I’m just silent. What do I say? Thank you for kicking me out of my place?
He drops the keys on the table near the door. “Well, let me know if you require anything—”
“But… my clothes? My stuff? When can I get my stuff?”
That stupid indulgent smile is back. “We’ll have to see how the decontamination goes.”
My jaw drops. “What? But… I have, like nothing. No clothes, no—” I stop complaining because he’s thrusting a credit card at me.
“It’s prepaid, one thousand dollars. I’m sorry, Miss Vaughn. But I really need to go and take care of the penthouse. We’re having an open house tomorrow and that coordinator is about as efficient and trustworthy as Mr. Golden, I’m afraid.”
And just like that he turns to leave.
“But wait—” Holy hell, Ronnie, get a grip. He’s gonna think you’re some pathetic loser who wants to jump his bones if you keep stopping him from leaving. “My boss is in the market for a place. I’m not sure if he wants to buy or rent, but I need to show him a place today. Maybe I could just take him up there and you can show him around?”
“Now?” he asks, like this is the most stupid request he’s ever heard. “I’m afraid I have pressing matters that require my attention. But I will instruct the doorman in the main lobby to give you access if you bring him by tonight. Otherwise he can look during the open house tomorrow like everyone else.”
And then he walks out.
What the fuck just happened?
I live here?
I twirl around and take it all in. It’s really beautiful. Maybe more beautiful than Rook and Ronin’s apartment down in Denver. There’s an L-shaped beige couch complete with a myriad of throw pillows along one wall. A giant TV. Not like those paper ones they put up in furniture stores. It’s real. There’s a pretty coffee table complete with magazines and large colorful expensive-looking books.
I walk over to the French doors and peer out over the large square balcony. It’s only the second floor, so I have a view of some trees. They don’t have leaves yet, but they might in a few weeks.
Will I still be here by then? I’m confused.
I walk down the hallway peering into the first bedroom. It’s decorated as an office. It even has a computer. Real, like the TV. There’s a bathroom across the hall. Just a regular one with a tub and stuff. But then I turn left and walk on until I come to the master bedroom.
I don’t gasp, I laugh. Because holy shit! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. King bed, large dark wood dressers, another huge TV, and an en suite bathroom that has a large oval jetted tub and a separate glass shower.
My phone buzzes in my pack that’s still slung over my shoulder and I fish through it, hoping it’s Rook calling so I can tell her about this amazing turn of events.
It’s Spencer. But I need to talk to him anyway, so I press his face. “Hey, I was just gonna call you with that appointment.”
“You were, huh?” he asks, with, like, zero enthusiasm.
Does he have to be such a dick all the time?
“Yeah, I found you a penthouse in those new condos on Mason Street? Well, they’re having an open house for the penthouse tomorrow, but I got you a private appointment tonight.” I stop talking and get silence. “If you want it.”
“Where have you been all day?” he finally says after several long seconds. “I’ve called a dozen times and it went straight to voice. You were out of area. Where were you?”
“Uh…” I scramble for my alibi. What was it? “Well, I sorta had a big day, Spence.”
“That right?” he says in that voice that tells me he thinks I’m full of shit.
“Yeah, my apartment, well, you’re never gonna believe this, but—” I stop. Because that was not the alibi. It was Rook’s doctor’s appointment. “Um, well, I’ll tell you if you want to see the condo.” Silence. He’s mad. Or suspicious. Or something. I’m suddenly so glad I’m at this place and not my old apartment, because I had nowhere to stash the bike over there. Here I’ve got it safely tucked away down in the parking garage. “So… do you? Want to see it?”
“Will you be there?”
Oh, what a dick. “Yeah, I’m the one showing it to you, remember?” Asshole, I add privately.
“The ones with the red roof?” he asks.
“Yeah, them. I’ll meet you d
ownstairs if you’re coming.”
“Be there in five.”
And then I get the I-hung-up-on-you beeps.
Chapter Eleven
SPENCER
She sorta had a big day? She sorta had a big fucking day? That takes her incommunicado?
Yeah, fucking right.
She’s lying her ass off, that’s what she’s doing.
Ronin already called. He cornered Rook coming out of the women’s clinic. And yeah, she had a doctor’s appointment all right, but Veronica was not with her when she came out. So if Ronnie tries to tell me that shit, I’m gonna lose it.
How the fuck am I supposed to keep this woman safe if she’s about as predictable as unexploded ordinance? I figured giving her an assignment today would keep her busy, but not this busy. She is most definitely up to something.
Maybe I shouldn’t have left her wanting this morning?
Too late to worry about that. I flip the shades down, slap the half-shell helmet on my noggin, and climb on the bike. I kick it and then back out of the garage. Ryan peeks his head into the storage bay where we keep our rides to see who’s leaving, and then flashes me a little salute and disappears.
I rev the engine and take off with a squeal. The Mason Street Condos are less than a mile away, so I’m already there before I can get any more thinking time in. I pull up to the front, then back the bike along the curb and shut her down.
The condo building is brick. Brand new—they just finished this complex last summer. I look all the way up to the penthouse. It’s only eight stories tall, so it’s not like some big high-rise. But in Fort Collins, eight stories is tall. I take off my helmet, leave the shades down, and climb the steps to the building. The door opens automatically and I find myself in the foyer of a luxurious lobby.
Ronnie is waiting at a desk off to the right, which in my opinion make this place look a little bit more like a hotel than a place to live. But what the fuck do I know about luxury living? Ford’s Denver condo had a lobby too, and there was a doorman and a desk.