by JA Huss
I swallow and clear my throat, thankful that I’m only on the second floor when the elevator beeps and the doors open. I step out and turn back to him, unsure and uneasy. “I’m just—”
“One hour,” he says, pressing the code for the penthouse. “I’ll be back in one hour. You clean up.” His smile is something close to genuine, and I hesitate just long enough for the doors to close on my confused face.
I walk down to the condo door, unlock it, and step inside. It’s dark and I have no real idea where the lights are, so I feel around on the nearest wall for the switch.
The room illuminates and I step forward. What the hell am I doing here? It doesn’t even make sense. My stomach rumbles and reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day. I go into the efficient kitchen decked out in granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances, and pull open the fridge.
A bowl of strawberries and a bottle of red wine.
I’m not really a wine person, but I find a corkscrew in a drawer and start drinking that shit out of the bottle. I grab the strawberries and set them on the counter top, then slide onto a plush barstool and start feeding myself.
Damn, this is like the best meal in the world.
My phone buzzes a text in my backpack. I jump down, fish it out, and read. Don’t get comfortable. Clothes in the bedroom. You have fifty minutes.
I text back. Who is this?
Ha ha, he returns.
At least he has a sense of humor. I walk back to the bedroom and type a simple OK as my response at the same time.
When I get there, all I see is the dress, laid out on the bed. Black. Short. Sexy. Then the black fuck-me boots. Damn, this guy has my style down. There’s some packages of expensive makeup that never in my life have I ever owned. I’m happy with the Cover Girl shit they sell at Target most of the time. And next to the makeup is a basket filled with hair products.
I sigh. This is a new feeling for me. Being taken care of like a woman. I’m not complaining about my dad’s parenting skills, he was not terrible at it. But no one has ever just… supplied me beauty things.
I love it. Like, I mean, I really love it. I hate struggling and even though lots of confusing things have happened in the last week, lots of really great things have happened too. Like today at the shop. I never once thought about the blood. I was too excited that Spencer sent Carson over to help me. Too thrilled with the fact that he’s had Carson leading me around, keeping some sort of big-brother eye on me. How long has that been going on? I’m not sure, but I think it’s new. Spencer just started paying attention to me last week when he found out I moved out of my dad’s. That’s when everything changed. And this Bobby guy has my curiosity up. I’m pretty sure he’s not gonna try to fuck me tonight, even though all of this appears to be leading up to a fuck.
No. That’s not why he wants me to come to dinner.
My phone buzzes again and I glance down. Forty-five minutes, is all it says.
I’m not actually sure why Bobby Mansi wants me to come to dinner, but I’m curious enough to find out.
Ten minutes later I’m clean. Twenty minutes later my hair has been blown dry and my head is dotted with hot rollers. Thirty minutes later my makeup is done. Forty minutes later I’m wearing the dress and I’m trying to get the fuck-me boots on. They are not so fuck-me accessible without a zipper. Spencer would never waste time trying to get these fuckers off. Nope. I’d be sleeping in them.
This makes me smile. Like so big. God, to be sleeping with Spencer in fuck-me boots again. I’d do almost anything to make that happen.
A knock on the door pulls me from my mini daydream and my heels click in that sexy whore-in-a-porno way as I walk down the hall to answer the door. I pull it open and put my hand on my hip because I’m feeling a little sassy right now. “You are one punctual guy. Is that your best quality?”
If I was answering for him, I’d have to say no. That is not his best quality. Because he’s standing in front of me in a dark suit that looks like it cost more than my ex-Mini Cooper, his hair is coiffed back the way the magazine models are wearing it these days, and he smells like sex.
“It might be,” he says seriously.
Yeah, that fuck-me scent he’s wearing is as much about me as these fuck-me boots are about him.
Weird.
“I’m ready.”
He smiles and then points to my head. “Not quite.”
“Oops, BRB.” Oh God, I’m so embarrassed. I left my rollers in. I do the high-heel tip-toe run back to the master bath and start taking the pins out. My hair rolls down my back in loose bouncy curls and I take an extra minute to fluff it up properly, then let out a deep breath and walk back down the hallway, grabbing my leather jacket off the barstool.
Bobby eyes it suspiciously. “There’s a nice coat in this closet,” he says, pointing to the door off the small foyer.
“I’m good,” I say back as he guides me out of the condo with a gesture, but not a gentle hand on my back like Spencer does. That’s another flag. Not a red one, but it’s at least a yellow. Because he’s got me all dressed up for a date, he’s feeding me dinner in his penthouse, and there’s an underlying air of romance about things.
And yet… there’s not.
It’s strange, but I don’t have much time to dwell, because the elevator doors open and I’m once again waved, but not physically guided, into the large living space. It looks just like it did yesterday, so I’m not awed or anything. This kind of luxury is pretty, I like it. But I’m a small-town girl at heart. I’d never be happy with a condo as my forever home.
“Please,” Bobby says as he motions to the table set up in front of the terrace windows. The view is black, with just a few twinkling lights from houses, because we’re facing the mountains. Out here the view is real. The view is nature. It’s got nothing to do with how the colors light up the darkness and create a beautiful facade that covers an ugly city.
When my eyes adjust to the low light the other view comes into focus. Stars. I’d never trade my starry nights for a valley of lights.
Bobby pulls a chair out for me and I sit as he pushes me back in. “You have nice manners,” I say absently as I take in the table.
“Thank you. I come from a prominent Italian family. They were big on manners.”
“Were? You don’t see them?”
He seats himself across from me and shakes his head, essentially ending that line of conversation. So I just take in my surroundings. I’ve been to fancy parties with Spence, mostly having to do with Antoine and Ronin. Their parties are productions. So I’ve seen a fully decked table before. But those people are like family. Their brand of opulence has never felt intimidating.
This brand does. This table says this man is serious about his fine dining.
I can hear people in the kitchen, so I know we’re not alone, and that eases my nerves a little.
“Hungry?” Bobby asks.
“Yes, I really am. I didn’t have time to eat today. We were busy from the minute I went in until the minute I left. I’d still be there working right now if you hadn’t come to collect me.”
He smiles as he grabs his napkin from the table and places it in his lap.
I do the same, sorta embarrassed that I didn’t do it immediately. My manners can’t compare to his. I mean, I have manners. I’m not some Honey-Boo-Boo backwoods, trailer-park redneck. But I’m pretty close. We are most definitely considered white trash around this town.
“Nervous?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say back truthfully. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”
He smiles as a waiter appears and fills our glasses with a deep red wine and sets down some bread in a pretty silver basket. “You’re a beautiful single woman. I’m an attractive single man. It’s a simple deduction, don’t you think?”
He lifts his glass and takes a sip of wine to hide his smile.
I fidget in my seat and blow out a long breath, desperately wishing I had brought my e-cigs. I want one. Bad. I settle for a hard swallow and
a mental pep talk. “I don’t think I’m here so you can fuck me tonight after you feed me a delicious meal.”
He laughs and sits back in his seat, crossing a leg over a knee and taking another sip of his wine. Totally at ease with my complete unease. “Is that so?”
I nod. God, this man can’t be much older than me—I’d say twenty-eight at the most—but he makes me feel like a child.
He caresses the edge of his wine glass with a fingertip, eliciting a sharp ting from the crystal. “Then why do you think I brought you here?”
I stay silent, wondering how much I should say. I actually do have a theory, but it’s pretty far-fetched.
“You must’ve thought about it, at least? Why would I ask you to dinner if not to get you in my bed afterward?”
“Well…” I look away. I guess this is it. It’s kinda exciting, but at the same time, terrifying. “You want me for something.”
He tilts his head in the slightest of nods, urging me to continue.
“You know I’m friends with… interesting people. People who have a lot of information, which,” I quickly add, “I have no knowledge of. At all. So if you’re looking for some insight into what they’re doing, or what they did in the past, or whatever, I have nothing to give you. I’m not that close to them.”
I sigh and look away. It sucks to admit it, but it’s true. I’m an outside friend, not an inside team member.
“Yes, I can see that from the way Spencer Shrike treats you.”
Yeah, thanks a lot, asshole. Thanks a bunch for reminding me I’m nothing to him. I mean, I had a great day fantasizing that Spencer cares, and now this jerk has to come in and hand me a reality check.
“They’re a team, those guys. Ronin, Spencer, and Ford. Right?”
“Yeah. And Rook.”
“And Ashleigh Li?”
I can only shrug at that. “I dunno much about her. I’m not even sure I like her. I never liked Ford much, but Rook loves him hard, so I try. But I’m not sure what kind of woman would marry a guy like Ford, to be honest. It bugs me.”
“Is he mean?” When I look over at Bobby, he’s got an eyebrow arched up in confusion. “He doesn’t come off as mean. An asshole, yeah. But from what I’ve seen, he’s not mean. But maybe I’m wrong?”
I’m careful with my answer because for some reason, I think this really matters. I think that if I say Ford is a mean guy, this might change something. It might change Bobby’s opinion of Ford. My opinion might actually matter.
Huh, that’s refreshing.
“No, I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean he’s beating her or anything. But he’s a weird guy.”
Bobby visibly relaxes.
“Why are you so interested in her, anyway? It is Ashleigh that you’re mainly interested in, right?”
He takes a long sip of wine before answering. “I have my reasons.”
“Yeah, well, if you want me to supply you with any more information, you’re gonna need to tell me those reasons.”
Bobby’s laugh is both lighthearted and terrifying at the same time. “Veronica, we both know you don’t have any information. Spencer Shrike has gone out of his way to distance himself from you for years. You’re not on the Team, honey.”
I throw my napkin down on my place and push my chair back to rise—but his strong grip on my wrist holds me in place. “Let go,” I demand calmly.
“No, Veronica. Sit back down, we’re not done.”
“Look, I’m not sure who you really are or what you really want, but I’ll tell you what. I’m not gonna sit here and let you hurt me. So let the fuck go of my wrist or I will take you down.”
“Is that—”
I hammerfist him in the forearm, yank my wrist free, spin on my fuck-me heel and whack him in the side of the face with my other fist. I step back and wait for his attack.
He sits in his chair as the redness creeps into the cheek I hit. “So you’re a fighter,” he says matter-of-factly. I say nothing. “That’s all I needed to know.”
And then he waits. It’s my move. I can walk out or ask the question he just set up.
I opt for the question. “Why?”
Now he does stand. His napkin falls to the floor and for some reason I fixate on it for the second it takes for him to get close to me again. He grabs my upper arm this time, but instead of pulling away, I let him pull me close.
Close enough to whisper in my ear.
“I’m not on the Team either, Veronica. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I just need to know if you’re a free agent.”
“Free agent?”
“Because I’d like you to be on my team.”
The waiter clears his throat and we both look over at him. He’s carrying a tray of covered food.
“Please,” Bobby says, and this time he does guide me with a hand on my back. “Please, eat. We’ll talk. And then I’m going to take you somewhere and test you.”
“What?”
He pushes me forcefully back towards my seat at the table. “If you sit and eat, Veronica, you will get all the answers you require.”
“Hmmm…” I know that trap. All the answers I require.
“Sit,” he commands. “You’re in, I can see it. So stop with the posturing and be patient.”
I allow him to seat me again, and as soon as he’s back in his place, the waiter approaches with the tray of food. My stomach growls and then practically screams as the lids on the silver trays are lifted and I’m presented with a delicious Italian feast.
“I’ll eat,” I say as I pick up my fork and dig in. “But I want more than the required answers.”
When I look up from shoveling another forkful of creamy pasta in my mouth, Bobby’s stare is rigid and flat. “You’ll get the answers I choose to give. But I assure you, everything I tell you will be the truth. I do not lie. I don’t believe in lies. If I can’t tell you the truth you want to hear, then I believe in silence.”
“We’re gonna kill someone, aren’t we?” I say offhandedly as I keep shoveling in the food. But it’s hard to miss the silence that follows that question.
Chapter Twenty-Four
VERONICA
I do my best to ignore the fact that Bobby Mansi practically admitted he wants me to help him kill someone, but after we sit in silence for about ten minutes, he begins to explain.
“I am here for one purpose,” he says as he caresses his wine glass. “I have a goal. There are many ways to achieve that goal, and yes, one ends in killing someone. Will you have a problem with that?”
I continue chewing. Slowly. Methodically. I dab my mouth with my pretty napkin and then set it back down in my lap. I reach for the wine and take a small sip. I can tell Bobby Mansi is not used to being made to wait. But I continue to take my time, crossing my legs, leaning back, and folding my hands in my lap. “I’m not killing anyone. I’m not a murderer. So yeah, I actually do have a problem with that.”
“You won’t be killing anyone, Veronica. Unless I need help. Then, if you agree to be on my team, I’ll expect you to have my back. That’s something we need to get clear right now.”
I reach for the bread and pick off a small piece and pop it in my mouth. Why can’t I ever get a normal date? Why do I only get asked out by the Spencers and the Bobbys? Am I that unapproachable that the only men who want to date me are criminals? Why does my first real dinner date in three months have to turn out to be an invitation to murder?
There must be something wrong with me. I’m pretty. I’ve got a nice body. I’ve got a college degree, and yeah, I’m a tattoo artist, but seriously? And this Bobby, he doesn’t even like me. He wants me to be his backup in some crazy scheme. He’s playing on the fact that I’m not part of Spencer’s secret team. He’s hoping I feel left out, alone, vulnerable, and desperate.
And he’s right. I feel all those things.
“Will you have my back?” he asks again.
I don’t know what to say. Seriously. What does a person say when she’s asked if sh
e’ll protect a man who might be trying to kill someone?
“Do you trust me?” he asks when my silence continues.
That’s an easy one, so I just answer. “No. Why should I trust you? I don’t even know you. You blow into town with money and buildings and offers. And I’m supposed to what, just jump at the chance to play cops and robbers with you? I mean, please. Give me a little credit.”
He smiles big at that, and his smile, good God. It’s quite nice. He’s a dark guy—Italian, he said. He looks Italian. His hair is thick and just shy of jet black. The shadow on his chin is just short of panty-dropping, that’s how sexy it is. And his eyes are bright with excitement.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask suddenly. I need something from him. Something personal to ground me. Help me form an opinion.
“No, I don’t have time for girlfriends.”
“What do you do then? I need some details, Bobby. Give me something.”
“I’d like you to go for a drive with me, Veronica. It’s an hour east of here, in an empty field. You and I will be alone. But”—he stands and walks over to a case on a buffet table along the wall, opens it, pulls out a FN Five-SeveN and holds it out to me—“you can have your gun now.”
I just stare at him. Is he serious?
“You gonna take it? Or just look at it? You know what this is, Veronica?”
“I know what it is.” I’m huffy about it, but fuck him. “Don’t talk to me about guns like I’m a girl.”
He shakes the gun a little, a signal for me to get up and take it from him. I push my chair back slowly, then rise and walk calmly across the room and accept the gun. I pop the magazine out—fully loaded with all twenty rounds—then check the chamber—empty. “It’s nice.”
He laughs. “Nice, yeah. It’s nice. So, would you like to accept my offer to test for me?”
“You want me to shoot for you? Right now? In the dark?”
His smile fades quickly. “The job’s happening tomorrow. I need to know if you’re on board tonight, otherwise I need to plan to go solo.”
“I need more information.”
“Come with me now and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”