The Maxwell Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Alexander, S. B.

  “You can slow down now.” I righted myself just in time to see we were hurtling toward the back end of a dump truck before Dillon cut the wheel hard to the right and into an alley, slamming on his brakes.

  I lurched forward slightly, thankful I’d managed to strap myself in. Otherwise, I would be sailing through the windshield right about now.

  He threw the car into park. “Who was the pretty boy?” He stabbed a thumb behind him as his thick eyebrows bunched together. “Is he your boyfriend? Tell me. I want to know who you’re messed up with.”

  “Fuck off. Who I know or who I’m with is none of your fucking business. I’m paying you to get me a gun and ammo. That’s it. One that can’t be traced.”

  His nostrils flared, shifting his skull nose ring. “Sweetheart, I need to know who my clients are. Just because you partied with my cousin twice removed doesn’t mean I trust you. That dude back there looks like the guy who dates Pitt’s princess.”

  I scrunched up my nose. “And that means what exactly?” I’d only been in town a week.

  “That means I’m not getting involved with the Russian mob. Start talking.” He mashed his lips into a thin line.

  I wasn’t about to tell Dillon that Kelton and I were childhood sweethearts. Or how I’d cried my eyes out, locked myself in my room, and didn’t eat for a week after we moved away. Or how I dreamed of him every night. No matter how scary a vibe Dillon gave me or what type of illegal business he was running, my business was my own. Sure, he could probably hurt me, even make me disappear, but I had to choose my battles at the moment, and sharing my childhood with him had no place in this conversation.

  Dillon reached over the console and grabbed my arm. “Do you know him?” he asked, his tone dripping venom. “If it’s Kelton Maxwell, I’m not selling you shit. Rumor is he’s about to marry the daughter of the head of the Russian mob. I value my miserable life. If the mob gets wind my crew is selling guns under their noses, I’m dead. As well as my crew. Plus, if that isn’t enough, his older brother is mixed up with a gal who’s the granddaughter of some Italian mobster out of LA. You get me?”

  My heartbeat dipped drastically at the thought of Kelton getting married. Actually, my stomach suddenly hurt as though I’d been sucker punched. I rolled my shoulders back. After I’d had a meltdown over moving away from Kelton, I’d put my life back together, sealing off a part of my heart that Kelton had stolen. I had to in order to help my sister, Gracie, overcome the tragic incident. Even more so when she committed suicide after two years of a life worse than hell. After her death, I focused on the positive things in life like she would’ve wanted me to.

  “Chill, all right? I get you.” And you don’t want to get on my bad side either. I shrugged out of his hold.

  I’d been on my own for two years. Protecting myself and handling thugs like him became second nature to me after I was attacked on the streets of Miami.

  “You sure are confident and cocky for a chick. Maybe you should be working on my crew.” His features softened. “The guys wouldn’t know what hit them with someone like you.”

  I laughed. “You want me to sell guns for you?”

  He sat back against his seat. “Your arms are well-toned, you seem like you can kick ass, and there’s an innocence about you. Yet I can tell you’re far from innocent. And I get the feeling you’re pissed off at the world. You have fire in your eyes, like you’re ready to kill someone. I like that. I could use that on my crew.”

  I was ready to kill someone—the trustee of my father’s estate, if I could find him. First, I had to get my life savings back. The law was of no help until I could prove the trustee stole my inheritance. But if working for Dillon meant I could have access to a gun, then maybe cutting a deal with him wouldn’t be so bad.

  We studied each other as if we were two lions about to do battle. Dillon hardened his strong, square jaw, flaring his nostrils.

  I sucked in my cheek. He was right. I was more than angry at the world and all the turmoil I’d been through. Regardless, I wasn’t about to feel sorry for myself. I’d been on that emotional rollercoaster. It was time to buck up and get back what was mine.

  “Who are you hiding from?” he asked, breaking the thick silence. “Don’t tell me no one. You’re wearing a wig. And you still haven’t told me why you wanted to run from that dude.”

  The Caribbean could freeze before I’d tell you.

  “Look, Emma, if that’s even your name. Whether you work for me or not, you still want a gun. Which means I need to trust that you’re not going to rat me out to the cops. If it’s trust you’re worried about, let it go. I stand to lose more than you.”

  I could argue that point. I had a million dollars in my inheritance that I had to get back. “Are you going to sell me a gun? If not, I’ll find someone else.” I opened the door. With my luck, the landlord in Miami I owed back rent would find me and hold me hostage until I could pay him. Not to mention, I owed the University of Miami a semester of tuition that I’d thought had been paid.

  “My cousin tells me you lost your family.”

  “I’m out of here.” I was about to jump out of the car when he took hold of my arm once again.

  “Wait. I’m sorry. I hate when people pry into my past too.”

  I sat back. “Listen, sell me a gun, and you’ll never see me again.” I didn’t want to research another dealer or get caught up with someone who didn’t seem as nice as Dillon. Or with my luck I would find that one person who was connected to the mob. Given what Dillon had mentioned about the mob, I wanted to stay away from them.

  He kept his brown gaze glued to me as he seemed to be mulling over something. “I’ll text you a time and place to meet me tonight.” He shifted the Camaro into gear.

  I dove into my own thoughts as he drove through the busy streets of Boston. I contemplated whether to at least tell Dillon what I was hiding from. I could use a guy like him, a guy who knew the city, in the event I got myself into a pickle.

  “I’m not hiding. I’m disguising. I’m looking for someone who stole from me. Let’s just say what he stole was very valuable. And that man back at school, he was posing for the art class I’m taking. He was staring at me the whole time. He gives me the creeps, that’s all.” It wasn’t a total lie.

  The way Kelton drilled those blue eyes of his into me—the same blue eyes that had hooked me from the moment we’d met back in the fifth grade—gave me a cold chill instead of the warm feeling I’d always gotten when he’d looked at me before. Maybe because I could never go back to the past. We’d been kids with a pipe dream—a dream of love, family, and happily ever after. But given what I’d been through, I knew nothing was forever.

  “Is the person you’re searching for in college?” Dillon asked.

  “Yes.” It was better to keep some information private until I could totally trust Dillon.

  Terrance Malden, the trustee of my father’s estate, always bragged about his son Zach and how skilled and creative he was with a paintbrush. He’d shown me drawings Zach had painted, which hung in Terrance’s office. He’d also mentioned how Zach had been trying to get into Mr. Brewer’s art class at BU. So I’d enrolled, trying to get close to Zach to discover the whereabouts of his dad. But I hadn’t seen Zach in class.

  “And this dude isn’t the one we left standing on the sidewalk?” He flicked his gaze from me to the road.

  I huffed. “For the last time, no.” Surely, Dillon wasn’t afraid of Kelton.

  “What are you going to do when you find him? Shoot him?” he said in a mocking tone.

  I lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”

  Chapter 3

  Lizzie

  The kitchen was a good size for an art gallery. It housed two side-by-side wine refrigerators, as well as two full-sized refrigerators. The room was also equipped with a stove, two ovens, t
wo sinks, several cabinets, and a large dishwasher. If I wasn’t mistaken, the gallery had been a restaurant at one time.

  I inhaled the light aroma of what smelled like chicken warming in the oven as I checked myself in a compact mirror. Since Dillon had figured out I was wearing a wig, I decided to put on dark-green eyeliner to highlight the light-green contacts followed by two coats of mascara, giving my eyes that smoky look. That way people would be drawn to my eyes and not my hair. I couldn’t risk being noticed by Terrance, who might be able to recognize me since he’d hung out with my dad at our house quite often. Until I could find him or chummy up to his son, I wanted to stay incognito. Then when the time was right, I would unveil the real me. Hopefully by then I would know where my money was and how to get it back. Satisfied, I dumped the mirror in my purse and rummaged around for my lipstick.

  “What are you looking for?” my friend Peyton asked as she tied back her pinkish-blond hair into a ponytail.

  “Lipstick,” I said as I continued to search my bag.

  “You don’t need any. Your lips have a natural pink color to them, and I told you to go natural tonight. You’re prettier without the wig and contacts.”

  “I like the color. Besides, it’s fun. Remember when we used to wear different color wigs and contacts every weekend?” We loved keeping the frat boys guessing our freshman year at the University of Miami, even going as far as changing our names.

  “What do you mean when? My sorority sisters still do it for the BU frat parties.”

  I laughed. “Unless I look hideous or ugly, what’s the harm?” I was wearing a white blouse and black pants. My red wig was short enough to frame my face, and my makeup was artfully done—not too much, not too little.

  “I’m sorry. You look great. I guess I like your long, dark hair better.”

  I did too. But until I got my money back, I was Emma with red hair and green eyes, and not Elizabeth or Lizzie with dark hair and blue-gray eyes, although Peyton had always called me Emma. Before our first frat party we came up with names. I’d always liked the name Emma, and since she’d said I reminded her of an Emma, the name stuck with her.

  She donned an apron she’d removed from a cabinet. “Anyway, you okay with this art gig? I know it was last minute, but I promised my mom I would help out, and you said you need the money.”

  I mainly took this gig when I learned that Mr. Brewer was showcasing his students’ artwork. It was my chance to get closer to Zach. And without my monthly deposits from Terrance, money was tight. “Yeah, it’s fine.” Since I hadn’t seen Zach in class, I wasn’t sure if he was or had been a student of Mr. Brewer’s or if he would even make an appearance that night. Either way, I had to find out. I spotted my lipstick.

  “Did he have Kelton posing today?” Peyton asked excitedly.

  My hands stilled around the lipstick.

  Her face paled to a shade matching her white blouse. “Oh my God. Was he naked? Did you sketch him? I bet Kelton will be here tonight.”

  The lipstick fell from my hand, clanging to the floor. I’d been so wrapped up with Dillon and figuring out the train system in Boston to get here that I didn’t think of Kelton attending an art gala. After all, he wasn’t a student. Thoughts of fleeing danced in my head. But I wasn’t one to let someone down, especially if I gave my word. So, I collected my lipstick, dropped it into my purse, then moved to the cabinet and plucked out an apron.

  “You know him?” I hadn’t shared much of my childhood with her, and when she moved back to Boston to help her mom with the catering business, we’d only spoken a handful of times.

  “What girl at BU doesn’t? He’s a god. Every girl wants a piece of him. Every girl wants to marry him.”

  After seeing Kelton in nothing but a cowboy hat covering his manly parts, I wanted a piece of him, too. But I wasn’t in the class to swoon over Kelton. I was there on the off chance that I would find Zach. Peyton thought I was in Boston for family reasons, and while I sort of was, I couldn’t tell her the truth yet. I didn’t know what I was up against, and I didn’t want to involve her if things got ugly.

  She walked over to the sink. “You’re one lucky bitch. That’s all I got to say. I wished I had the option this semester for an elective.”

  I wouldn’t call myself lucky. In my mind, running into Kelton was a distraction. He was all I kept thinking about since art class, when I should’ve been thinking about my next move to find Terrance or Zach Malden.

  She washed her hands. “What position did Brew have Kelton in? And you never answered if he was naked.” She rubbed her hands together slowly.

  Yep, my work was cut out for me. If she continued talking about Kelton, I was burnt toast. I tied the apron around me and joined her at the sink.

  “Tell me before I wet my panties.”

  Mine were already moist. I busted out laughing. “I’m definitely not telling you. You’ll have your soapy hands down your pants.”

  She moaned. “Damn straight I will.”

  A phone rang to the tune of “Better as a Memory” by Kenny Chesney.

  Peyton swiped a paper towel from the dispenser. “That’s your ringtone? Can you get any sadder?”

  I snagged the towel from Peyton, quickly wiped my hands, and retrieved my phone from my back pocket. “Hello?”

  “Emma, it’s Dillon. I have to be in Cambridge tonight. Meet me at a club called Rumors at 11:00 p.m. And if you want to do business, lose the wig. I want to see the real you.” Then the phone went dead.

  No way was he seeing the real me—not in public anyway.

  “Who was that?” Peyton asked. “Are you making friends already? His voice sounds yummy.”

  Dillon did have a soothing voice for a scary-looking guy. “You heard that?” I had barely heard him.

  “Only when he said your name. So, spill. Who is he?” She anchored her body against the counter.

  I tensed.

  “Okay, we need to get moving,” said a short, middle-aged lady with a bob as she glided in, carrying shopping bags. “You must be Emma. My daughter hasn’t stopped talking about you.” She set down the bags on the counter. “Thank you for helping out. I understand you’ve served before?”

  I thought Peyton would have at least told her mom my real name. But I wasn’t complaining. The less people knew of the real me, the better the chances of me staying incognito. “Yes, ma’am. Applebee’s and The Olive Garden.”

  “Good. Good. Oh, and call me Wendy.” She went over to the fridge and pulled out trays of shrimp cocktail and empty lettuce cups. “Let’s get started. The quiches and chicken are in the oven. Let’s start with the champagne and wine.”

  Peyton and I moved to the bar adjacent to the door that spilled into the gallery. The bottles of bubbly and red and white wine had already been opened. So we poured and prepped four silver trays of alcohol. Then we collected a wad of napkins before inserting half of them in our apron pockets and placing the other half on the trays.

  “We should have a packed house. Let’s start with alcohol,” Wendy said. “And be sure to smile. I’ll have the hors d’oeuvres ready shortly.”

  Carefully, Peyton and I each grabbed a tray of glasses and made our way out. The gallery had a warm atmosphere with just the right amount of lighting showcasing the art pieces displayed around the room either on stands or hanging on the walls. A soft hum of chatter filled the room. People dressed in elegant evening wear mingled around the geometric paintings, landscape portraits, and photographs of people of all shapes and sizes. If this was a showing for Mr. Brewer’s work and that of his students, I was impressed with the perfection of some of the pieces.

  I served, moving from one group or couple to another. I worked one side of the room while Peyton worked the other. My pulse jumped every time I offered someone a drink. I was nervous about the possibility of bumping into Ke
lton. I was also apprehensive about confronting Mr. Brewer. I’d told him I’d left class early because I had to pick up my cat from the vet before they closed. He’d arched an eyebrow but hadn’t questioned me. He’d asked for my sketchpad before I left, but I’d ripped up the drawing of Kelton so fast Mr. Brewer didn’t have time to stop me. It wasn’t a good way to start my first day, but I’d panicked. So I thought about a cat, her name, her breed, and what was wrong with her. Guilt rode me since I didn’t own a cat, although I imagined petting Kelton as he posed on that stage in art class. Though nothing about him resembled a cat or the silky coat of one. Heat shot through my belly as I pictured my fingers running along every hard angle and ridge along his abs, biceps, and thighs.

  A dainty voice severed my porn moment. “Miss.” A green-eyed brunette met me eye-to-eye. “Do you know where the ladies’ room is?” she asked, fingering the polar bear charm hanging around her neck.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t. But you can try the hallway.” I turned to point behind me, and my tray of glasses wobbled.

  “Thank you.” She dashed into the crowd.

  I watched her for a second before a lump formed in my throat. The brunette stopped to chat with none other than Kelton. The lump seemed to grow as I tried to swallow. At any second, I was afraid I was going to choke.

  Peyton came up beside me. “You should lower your finger. It’s rude to point.” She giggled. “I see Kelton has the same effect on you as he does on the rest of us women.”

  You don’t know the half of it.

  “He’s delicious in his tux, isn’t he?” She cooed as if she was about to have an orgasm. “I wonder where his girlfriend is?”

  As though cold water had been poured over my head, I snapped out of my trance. “Is that his girlfriend?” I asked.

  A guest came up to us to exchange an empty glass for a red wine.