Clover put both palms to her cheeks and blinked several times, thinking she could be making the best decision or the worst mistake of her life. “Alright. Deal.”
“Deal, you’ll tell me everything?”
“Yes.”
It didn’t take long for Raze to describe his history. How he’d been dumped with his uncle, why he’d joined the Guard and ended up in a war zone, the cheating, the divorce, everything. He expected stray girl to be sympathetic and feel sorry for him. If she did, that was not what she said.
What she said was, “You lied to me.”
“What?””
“I said ‘you’re not an expert on car mechanics’ and you didn’t deny it. And it turns out you’re like the great kowabunga of all grease monkeys.”
Slowly he smiled. “You didn’t ask me if I knew anything about cars.”
“A subtle distinction.”
“No. It’s not. I also didn’t tell you that I like Wagner. That doesn’t mean I lied about it.”
She frowned at the incongruity of that statement. “You like German opera?” He shrugged, looked away, and turned the bottle up. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Fascinating. “Then you also lied about ignorance of Lord of the Rings. I’d bet on it!”
He might have looked a tiny bit sheepish. “Fine. You got me there. I have read Lord of the Rings. Saw the movies, too.” He waved toward the living room. “On cable.”
“Well,” she said, “that invalidates our deal. I can’t tell my story to a liar.”
The gleam that jumped to Raze’s eyes made him look like he was channeling the devil himself. Clover instantly began reconsidering the wisdom of teasing the devil. Himself. “You think you can break a deal with a man like me?”
When he began to stand slowly, she said, “Eeep,” and bolted for the other room. It was a small house. She ran to the bedroom and tried to shut the door, but he was too fast. The door was torn out of her hands and a second later she found herself on her back on the bed being tickled mercilessly by a man who meant business and was clearly enjoyment her torment.
“Stop!” she panted breathlessly. “You can’t do this.”
He nodded decisively, white teeth making a rare appearance as he sat on top of her, legs straddling her hips. “I can. And I’m betting I can do this longer than you can do that.”
She supposed what he meant by ‘that’ was squirming, gasping, turning purple, desperately trying and failing to get her midsection away from his hands.
“Please,” she begged.
A charged current of sexual awareness slammed into both of them at the same time as the compromising nature of their surroundings and the electrical currents running between the touchpoints of their bodies simultaneously crystalized into a moment of perfect carnal clarity. Raze saw in her eyes that she would be his for the taking. And, while that might be a bucket list item, it was not on his immediate agenda. So he decided to steer things in a different direction before there was no turning back.
He stood up. Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet and said, “Get your ass to the table. The kitchen is now your confessional. And I’m your fucking priest.”
“Let’s start with your name.”
“Clover.”
Raze didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been ‘Clover’. He appeared to be attempting to marshal patience. “Is. That. Your. Real. Name?”
She shot out of her chair and stomped away to the bedroom. Each time her foot struck on the old wood floor forcefully he heard a slight rattle of dishes in the cabinets and felt the reverberation through his chair.
He looked at Bless, who was lying on the floor, but alert and keenly interested in whatever was disturbing the new pack member.
After the sounds of distant rustling from the other part of the small house, the sound of stomping reversed. She stormed back into the kitchen and slapped her driver’s license down on the table.
“No need to be haughty,” he said calmly. “It’s not like I have no reason to be distrustful.”
“You have NO reason to be distrustful. Other than my name I never told you one thing about myself, true or untrue.”
His eyes cast downward to the license sitting on the table. He picked it up. Though not particularly flattering, it was a photo of the woman he knew as stray girl.
“Clover Fields.” His eyes raised to hers slowly.
She rolled her eyes, threw her hands up, and let them fall on her thighs. “What can I say? My parents think they’re funny. ‘No one will forget your name, Clover. If you want to run for president of your class, you’re halfway there because everybody will know you.’”
Raze sighed. “That’s probably true. So your name is Clover Fields. It may take me a minute to get used to that.”
“I don’t want you to get used to it. You cannot use my name!”
Raze didn’t bother to ask the question that was hanging in the air between them. “Why not?” simply didn’t need to be said out loud.
Taking in and letting out a big breath, she gushed out the whole story like a fountain that had been clogged and was suddenly freed. She included the cheating husband and the credit card debt because she felt like she owed him the whole picture or nothing.
When she was done, he said, “Christ.”
With a sigh, she said, “I think I’ll take that beer now.”
“How much was it?”
“The mob money? Two hundred and seventy-five thousand.” He whistled. “Tell me about it. I was all set to be a slave to banks for the rest of my life. Then I thought I got a visit from a fairy godmother. That turned into an unwanted visit from the godfather.”
“So your plan was to run to Texas? ‘Cause you thought we don’t have paved roads and telephones?”
“No! I didn’t think that. I just thought it would be, you know, remote.”
“So you bought a junker from Henry. Where were you gonna go?”
“I’d planned to keep going west.” She stopped abruptly and focused on Raze. “Where would you have gone? If you were in, um, a situation like mine?”
Cocking his head, he said, “All things considered, I think I’d probably head to Cajun country.”
“Louisiana?”
“Yeah. I learned somethin’ about the culture when I was there with the Guard.” He shrugged. “Lots of places to get lost. And with their history, Cajuns have gotten real good about mindin’ their own business. Understandably. And keepin’ things to themselves.” He took a sip of beer and set the bottle down. “God willin’, I’ll never have to make a choice like that. But if I did, I’d head toward Lafayette Parish.” He shifted his gaze to study Clover. “Smart of you to try to erase your cyber footprint. But if you ever got pulled over, they’d run your driver’s license through the system.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re not a criminal, sugar. Lucky for you, you found your way to Dripping Springs and then got stranded by a piece of shit Toyota.” He chuckled and shook his head. “That apparently will start for anybody at all but you.”
“That’s not really funny,” she said.
“Yeah.” He smiled broader. “It is.”
Raze got quiet and seemed lost in his head.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
Instantly his focus cleared as his eyes jerked to hers. “That it would be wrong to sell that car for parts.” He pulled out his phone and called Brash. “Changed my mind. Don’t sell that car.” Pause. “Yeah. The one at the compound.” Pause. “I don’t know. That’s the best I got.” Pause. “Okay. Thanks.” Pause. His gaze fixed on the woman patiently trying to figure out what was going on. “Yeah. She loves it. Fits her like a glove.”
When he hung up, Clover looked resigned and her tone was flat. “You’re giving me back the Toyota and sending me on my way.” She sucked in a shaky breath, nodded resolutely, and started to rise. “That’s what I…”
“Sit your butt rig
ht back down in that chair. You’re not goin’ anywhere, ‘cause we’re a long way from done.” She sat back down, lines forming between her brows. “Of course I’m not givin’ you back the Toyota and sendin’ you on your way. What’s the matter with you? Are you daft? Or do you think I’m the kind of man who runs from trouble?”
“But you said… about the car…” She pulled back, looking confused as could be.
It wasn’t so much that he wanted to avoid the appearance of sentimentality like a bad rash as that the subject of the weird Toyota was off topic. At least that was the line of logic followed by his inner rationalization.
“I decided I want that car. End of story. It’s for me. Not for you. Why would I give you back a car that you can’t turn on? So you can live in the parking lot?”
“Well…”
“Well, I wouldn’t. That’s just silly.”
“Okay.” When put like that, it did seem to have been a silly conclusion.
“Back to the matter at hand. This is one of those things that can’t be outrun. We’ve got to find a way to fix it. Permanently.”
When his words began to sink in, she stared at him and blinked.
“We?” His eyes caught the tiny tremble of her bottom lip. The question he read on her face broke his heart in two. And that was before a single tear spilled out of her very expressive and, at the moment, very liquid eyes. The memory of the first time he ever saw her jumped to the screen of his mind. Damp. Lost. And looking back over her shoulder.
Stray girl was right. Bad stuff had come his way, but he’d always had a home. And even when he pushed them away, he knew he had friends who would drop everything in the middle of their own wedding and come if he asked them to.
The fact that she so desperately needed somebody on her side only made him determined to be that man. He’d use every resource in his arsenal, but he would see the day when Clover Fields never felt like she had to look back over her shoulder.
He leaned over, cupped her cheek with his big hand, and wiped the tear away with his thumb. Reflexively, she leaned into his hand. He liked the look and feel of that and knew that what he wanted out of life was for stray girl’s impulse to always be movement toward him. Not away from him.
Leaning back, he said, “If providence was gonna dump you someplace, you’re lucky that it was here. Because if you’re runnin’ from somethin’, you couldn’t be in a better place, except maybe a top secret bunker. And who wants to live like that? I’ve got resources. Friends who are as connected in their own way as the people you’re crossways with.”
He also had the money to clear her debt and knew that would be the quickest cleanest way to dispense with the problem.
CHAPTER Ten BOUNTY HUNTER
Thibaut Le Cocq liked to keep a low profile in every way, including looks. He was six feet tall, medium build, with regular features. Not model handsome. Not unattractive. He wore his hair buzzed, no jewelry, no tattoos. When he was home in the south, he wore jeans, blue work shirts, boots, and baseball caps. When he was in other parts of the country, he wore jeans, boots, and Henleys. If he was traveling internationally, he adjusted accordingly.
Everything about his choice in style was designed to not call attention to himself. The less notice he attracted, the better. His regular looks formed the perfect disguise for a soul that was deformed and, for whatever reason, never fully developed.
Le Cocq was a Cajun bounty hunter out of Bon Aubry in the heart of Lafayette Parish, who worked both sides of the law. There was only one ideal that he was fully committed to. Personal profit accumulated by any means.
So he worked for bail bondsmen when they presented the easiest target with the greatest reward. As an equal opportunity freelancer, he would just as soon accept criminal patronage when it was convenient and a job caught his interest.
Only one policy stood between him and a hunt. He delivered whoever he was asked to run down, without fail. But he delivered them alive.
Thibaut Le Cocq was not a hitman. Not because he had qualms about dispatching people who, more than likely, had it coming, but because there was no point in taking on that jeopardy when he could earn what he wanted without the risk of prison time.
Sometimes Le Cocq’s targets were delivered a little worse for wear. That was covered in his standard contract. But they were always alive.
He kept a home base in Bon Aubry, but was light on his feet. No ties that would hamper his ability to travel anywhere, anytime. Nothing to stand in the way of pursuing whatever job appeared to meet his qualifications. The qualification list was short. Lucrative and easy.
He liked easy.
Over a decade he’d earned a reputation for success and was a recipient of the daily update that arrived in a hushmail account. He’d reached a stature in his profession so that he vetted clients, not the other way around.
He got regular notices from bail bondsmen. He got less regular notices about jobs outside the usual channels. Those were always worth a look because they paid more, required zero paperwork, and he didn’t have to maintain a license in the state where the prey was suspected to have fled.
He’d been home for less than a day after chasing a runner from D.C. to Panama then Ecuador before finally grabbing him in Venezuela. There was a week’s worth of paper before the U.S. embassy decided to have Le Cocq complete extradition instead of using their own resources. He’d collected enough from that job to kick back and watch General Hospital for a couple of years, but after half a day, he was getting restless.
A ‘concerned’ New Jersey family was offering a hundred k for the ‘safe’ return of a missing person named Clover Fields. He sneered because it was obviously either an alias or a stripper name.
Unlike bail bonds notices, the ‘flyer’ didn’t say what she did, but that was okay because he didn’t care. A phone number was listed, which he knew would be a burner. Using his own disposable phone, he called to get the info.
The woman was reputed to be twenty-three. Clover Fields was her real name. Huh. She’d picked up a bag of cash that had been stashed in the wrong gym locker. When the rightful owner asked for the return of the money, she’d fled.
Le Cocq didn’t care about any of that and was moderately bored with the details, but he listened and didn’t interrupt, since the guy hiring him seemed talkative.
“What else?”
“Parents deceased. She has a much older sister who moved to Canada and became a citizen. No current love interest. Friends don’t know where she went. She hasn’t been in touch.”
“I’ll do it on an exclusive basis.”
There was silence on the other end of the call. “I don’t know if we can agree to that.”
“Those are my terms. A hundred k and exclusivity. If I don’t deliver in two weeks, you’re free to open it up.”
“Exclusivity for two weeks. Okay. Call me on this phone when you have her. I’ll give you delivery instructions.”
Le Cocq hung up, sat down at his desk, and opened a new file.
In addition to specialized search techniques, he had a network of plugged in informers all over the world. Each one knew that a good tip would result in an anonymous deposit to their Paypal account.
Within an hour he had the basics. College degree paid for with loans that would give Warren Buffet pause. Landed a nothing job at a barely solvent magazine that barely paid for her crap studio apartment. She was so squeaky clean she had never even been disciplined for smoking in high school.
From what his employer had told him, she’d left her crap car at her crap apartment and disappeared.
That kind of girl would not be able to figure out how to acquire an alternate identity. In the twenty-first century that meant no air travel. No ID. No fly.
That left train travel, bus travel, or hitchhiking. Unless she bought a car for cash. That was a possibility. But if she’d used the money to pay banks, as she’d told the ‘recovery experts’, she probably didn’t have enough left to buy a car that would go very fa
r.
For Le Cocq, every part of bounty hunting was gratifying, even the initial steps of setup. Finding available pieces to begin the puzzle that would eventually form a cohesive picture.
He would personally hit the bus terminals closest to her point of departure from the grid, but meanwhile, he’d get the spider working. That was what he called his extended network of eyes and ears. He’d have hundreds of people, including law enforcement, looking for someone who matched Clover Fields’ description.
No. She hadn’t done anything illegal, but cops needed deposits in their Paypal accounts as much as anybody else. They were good resources because they were out and about as opposed to desk bound or home bound, and looking around. Always looking. The same could be said of bike clubs. So he used them, too.
He spent a few days doing his research, setting his traps, catching up on his cable shows that he’d recorded, and doing laundry. By the time his network was fully activated, he was repacked and ready to go with a flight out of New Orleans.
CHAPTER Eleven IT’S WHO YOU KNOW
“This is gettin’ to be a habit,” Brash said when Raze called to say he needed another favor. He was teasing because Raze was the lowest maintenance friend he had.
“I know. I’d take the others back for this one. Believe me.”
By the tone of Raze’s voice, Brash could tell it was something more serious than car shopping.
“What do you need?”
“A face-to-face confidential. You. Me. And Brand.”
“Brandon?”
Raze’s eyes flitted toward stray girl. “Yeah. He in town?”
“Yeah. Where do you want to meet?”
“Here. First crew comes into the roadhouse at two tomorrow to get ready for opening at four. I got no deliveries scheduled. Nothin’ goin’ on. So we’d have the place to ourselves in the morning. I think that’s safest.”
“Safest?” There was a register of alarm in Brash’s question.
Roadhouse (Sons of Sanctuary MC, Austin, Texas Book 5) Page 10