by Layla Nash
"This shirt has seen a lot worse," Tate said. He glanced down, then shrugged. "Besides, she doesn't hold that much. It's already there, and I'm no worse for wear. Unless you're trying to run me out, I'm going to sit here and finish my whiskey, and she's keeping my shoulder warm in this godforsaken Siberia of a town you people live in."
SJ snorted, then got busy wiping down tables when they both looked at her. SJ knew perfectly well how much liquid that baby held, and it wasn't a small amount. Tate was being kind and she couldn't figure out why. He obviously wasn't sweet on Rosie, if she'd been propositioning him for the last few months and he hadn't fallen into her trap, and he clearly wasn't interested in SJ. She couldn't figure him out, and that made her very nervous. A man that good-looking couldn't have been that nice just for kicks.
Rosie moved a little slower, collecting the bottles and glasses and dishes from the tables, while SJ wiped them down and arranged the chairs. Tate fussed with the laptop and the music system until some soothing music played, not the rock and roll that made SJ feel frantic and rushed and overwhelmed. A couple of songs played before Rosie cleared her throat. "I talked to the sheriff. He was hanging out near the pool table, so I figured I'd ask him for a favor."
SJ froze, staring at Tate's back. He looked somehow more alert, even though SJ couldn't see his face, and her heart jumped to her throat. The last thing she wanted was people in town knowing about her past, and what she'd put up with. Even if Tate didn't seem to be the kind of guy who would ask someone like her out, regardless of how comfortable he looked around a baby, she didn't want him to know how awful her exes had been. But SJ cleared her throat and shot Rosie a deadly look, hoping to dissuade her from going on. "Can't this wait?"
Rosie snorted, tossing more bottles into the recycling bin. "I don't know, darlin'. It could be good or bad news. That ex-boyfriend of yours has warrants out for his arrest. Serious warrants — some federal charges. Lots of drug running, organized crime, stuff about crossing state lines for the purposes of selling drugs, human trafficking. I didn't understand half of it, but it's bad."
"What?" It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, and her hands shook as she caught the back of a chair and sank into it before she fell on her face. She'd known Chuck wasn't a choir boy, but she hadn't thought he was that involved in drug running. Human trafficking? "You can't be serious. Organized crime?"
"Yep." Rosie frowned as she retrieved a broom and swept up a few bits of broken glass from when one of the local girls tried to get sexy with some dance moves to distract Tate, though the man hardly noticed. The older woman gave her a shrewd look. "The drug charges were a bit of a surprise."
"You're telling me," SJ said, and put a shaking hand to her forehead as she tried to think through a fog of exhaustion and the last six months of living with Chuck. "I had no idea. I thought —"
Tate made a rude sound from where he sat at the bar, and SJ froze. She looked at his back, eyes narrowing. And what the hell did that mean? SJ swallowed her first reaction and pushed to her feet, wanting her baby back from the guy who pretended to be nice but was probably a dick. "I beg your pardon? Is there a comment from the peanut gallery?"
Tate spun on the stool until he faced them, leaning back against the bar, and patted Dakota's back as he watched SJ approach. His eyebrows arched and he gave her a knowing look. "Sure you had no idea. Give me a break. You can't correct a problem until you acknowledge it."
"I didn't know," she said, slow and distinct so he could hear every syllable. Typical. "I found one small bag the day I left, and that was it. I'm not about to expose my kid to a bunch of meth heads, thank you very much. But I'm glad I got your opinion on it, since what you think really matters to me."
Rosie went behind the bar, shaking her head. "Both of y'all calm down. Tate, she didn't know. I can guarantee it."
"Bullshit." Tate shook his head, pale eyes flashing with something almost like anger. "That's why her car reeks of meth. Because she didn't know about any of it, and she's not transporting this shit for her boyfriend."
"What?" SJ stared at him, trying to understand what he was saying. "What do you mean my car reeks of meth? There's nothing in there. I checked before I left."
Tate tapped his nose and handed Dakota to Rosie. "The nose doesn't lie, Sarah Jane. You brought a whole shitload of meth into our town. Pounds of it. Enough to ruin a lot of lives out here. Do us a favor and get it the hell out before this time tomorrow, or there's going to be a world of trouble. For everyone."
Rosie got in his way before he reached the door, and Rosie planted a finger in his chest that stopped the huge guy in his tracks. "Stop right there, Tate. Are you threatening my friend?"
"I'd never threaten a woman," Tate said. "But I know from experience that if you steal a shitload of meth from a dealer or distributor, they're going to come after you. Her boyfriend probably lost a lot of money he couldn't afford to lose when she drove away, and he'll have no choice but to retrieve the drugs to save his own life. Because I can guarantee that her boyfriend isn't the highest predator on that food chain, and someone else is waiting for him to pay his tab. The last thing I want is to see that chaos in Bear Creek. So find the drugs and give them back to whoever they came from, and then move along. It's the best for everyone."
Then he moved Rosie out of the way and stomped into the snow outside, forgetting his jacket and hat on the hook near the door, while Rosie stared at where he'd gone and SJ struggled to breathe. He couldn't be right. Chuck wouldn't come after her, because there weren't drugs in her car. She'd searched it from top to bottom, front to back. Under the upholstery where she could pull it up, and through every inch of the trunk and tires.
Rosie looked at her. "Sarah Jane, you best start talking."
"I swear, Rosie, I searched the car. I didn't find anything. I didn't. I wouldn't ever bring that kind of trouble to your door, I promise. You know I wouldn't." SJ shivered as panic flared up and adrenaline surged. She needed to search the car. She had to make sure that Tate guy was full of shit, even though he sounded really confident. Her heart jumped to her throat and made it difficult to breathe. "I'll search it again. I'll tear the car apart. I don't want trouble, Rosie, I swear, I just want —"
"It's okay, honey." Rosie soothed Dakota as she stirred, and Rosie dropped her voice so the baby would continue to sleep. "We'll figure this out. Tate knows his stuff, so... we're going to have to search the shit out of that car to make sure he's not right. But we might have to prepare ourselves in case your ex decides to track you down anyway. Now that the sheriff knows he might be headed this way, we've got the law on our side. I can take you over there tomorrow, and you can file a restraining order against this guy."
"If he thinks I have his drugs, a restraining order won't do shit." SJ rubbed her forehead, staring around the bar but not seeing any of it. The place had felt almost like a sanctuary, as hectic as it had been, but after what Tate said... All of it came crashing down. "Oh my God, Rosie. What am I going to do?"
"We'll figure it out. Now let's get the rest of this put away and get some food, then get straight to bed. It's late and neither of us is thinking our best. It'll look better in the morning."
SJ wasn't so sure there was any way for things to look better, regardless of the time of day, but she carried out the trash before following Rosie upstairs to the apartment. She really hoped Tate was wrong, and looked forward to showing him there weren't any drugs in her car. The next step would be convincing Chuck and whoever came after him.
Chapter 9
Tate
Tate didn't sleep well, tossing and turning as he thought about the look on the girl's face when she had to admit knowing her boyfriend was involved in drugs. He didn't like it. He felt like a total ass, and the mountain lion side of him kept him up all night as punishment. He'd made Sarah Jane feel bad, and it bothered him with a deep tension in his guts. Like the night before a big mission, when all the what if's and what then's played out in his thoughts.
Until he spotted Rosie in the window of the mechanic's shop, gesturing at something, with her worried face on. And then Sarah Jane, carrying the baby, appeared next to her — also looking worried. The car she'd driven wasn't on the street anymore, and Tate bit back a groan. She had a car packed with drugs so she took it to a mechanic to find the goods? That was the worst idea he'd ever heard. The mechanic was a good guy, but he had bills to pay as well and with the amount of meth in that car... it would be hard to walk away from.
Tate stood in the street too long; when he looked up again, Rosie had hustled out of the garage and across the street, her expression determined as she snapped her fingers at him. "Okay, hotshot. Let's go."
"Let's go where?"
Tate didn't exactly set his heels, but he sure as hell didn't cooperate as Rosie tried to tow him across the street. Rosie scowled at him over her shoulder and pointed at the garage, and she really had to lean in to it as she pulled on his arm. "You're the one who brought this up. I think I can smell what you're talking about, but I can't figure out what smells like regular car chemicals and what might be... other things."
"Look, I'm not interested in —"
Rosie stopped in her tracks so suddenly that Tate nearly fell over, and her eyes narrowed and flashed gold as she poked him in the chest. "That girl is scared to death. If you're just fucking around, Tate, you tell me now so I can put her out of her misery. If there's something we need to be worried about, then man up and figure it out."
Tate rubbed his chest, irritated that the other mountain lion was challenging him so directly. "I know what I'm talking about, Rosie, and there are drugs packed into every inch of that car. Do you really want me to pull all of that out in front of a couple of mechanics and whoever else is hanging out in the garage today?"
"Obviously not, but where the hell else were we going to go to search the car?" She scowled and started back towards the garage, rubbing her arms since she'd left her coat inside. "We looked everywhere and couldn't find it — inside the tires, under the seats, in the cushions, everywhere."
Tate snorted, then schooled his face to impassive as she gave him another pissed-off look and bared her teeth, which had all turned a little too pointy. He shrugged and resisted the urge to tease her more; a good rolling fight with another mountain lion might tire him out better than wading through snow. "That's not everywhere. By any means."
Inside, Sarah Jane tried to comfort the screaming baby, who apparently had slept as well as Tate had. Sarah Jane barely looked at him, her lips pressed in a thin line, which only made the mountain lion more determined to eventually comfort her. Rosie grabbed Tate's arm and directed him to the car without another word, then she sauntered up to the mechanic and his assistant and distracted them all the way into the office. Tate sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he'd gotten a lot more rest. He didn't know what to say to Sarah Jane, and could barely look her in the eye. He hated feeling like an asshole. "Look, I didn't —"
"Let's go, big guy," Rosie said, marching back into the garage. She folded her arms over her chest as she looked at the shitty sedan, pulled into an open bay so the mechanic could check the undercarriage. "Work your magic."
He gritted his teeth and cracked his knuckles, not looking at either of them. "Sure. But where are you going to put all the shit I pull out of there?"
"We'll worry about that when we come to it," Rosie said. Still looking at him like she didn't think he'd find anything.
Tate started getting irritated, and the baby's crying didn't help his growing headache much. He frowned at Sarah Jane. "Is she going to scream all day?"
Her eyes flashed and for a second he thought she might deck him. "She doesn't like hanging around assholes this early in the morning. So the sooner you leave, the sooner she'll quiet down."
Great. Tate scowled and yanked open the driver's side door. Rosie leaned forward. "We already —"
Tate ignored her, though he muttered, "You owe me a bottle of the good stuff for this," and started hitting buttons. There was always a sequence. Radio or air conditioner, open the glove box, turn the bass up, and... there. A small panel released from where the airbag had been on the passenger side, filled with other buttons and knobs and a few other controls.
"Shit," Rosie said, and moved back as Tate levered himself out of the driver's side to go around to the passenger side.
Tate blocked out the memories of doing that kind of stuff full-time — not just looking for how other guys hid their stuff, but building the compartments into cars for his guys. For the DEA, for ATF, sometimes FBI or the local sheriffs. He'd been good at it. Really, really good. So when they set him up in a chop shop and let the rumor get out that he did grade-A custom work for whoever had the money to pay, the drug runners found him. And all he'd had to do was put GPS trackers in the cars as well, hidden so the feds could hunt down the guys who paid Tate's bills.
Not that he got to keep the money.
He flipped a few switches and the rear quarter panel released on pneumatic hinges with a soft whoosh, revealing the compartment hidden inside. Which was completely packed with bags of white crystals. Meth. Exactly like he'd smelled.
He didn't pull it out but left it packed in the compartment — he didn't want to get his fingerprints on it and he hadn't brought gloves, and he sure as hell didn't want to disturb it in case the owners of all that shit came looking for it and suspected someone lightened the bags. He kept releasing more compartments, all over the car, as Rosie's face got progressively paler and Sarah Jane stared at him like he'd grown another head.
Rosie cleared her throat, though her voice came out barely above a whisper. "How do you know all this stuff, Tate? How did you know where this was?"
"I used to work in a body shop." That was all he wanted to say about it. He'd left it behind for a reason, and re-living it, even to help Rosie out, was not pleasant. Just the smell of the meth sparked nausea in his guts. "We did custom work."
"This is really... custom," Sarah Jane said, staring at the car.
Tate snorted, shaking his head, and crouched behind the rear bumper of the car, feeling for one last trigger near the license plate. Which was fake, of course — stamped in someone's backyard, most likely, but sure as hell not legal. It was a good copy, which meant whoever she'd been dating wasn't a regular run-of-the-mill drug runner. "It's pretty standard, for what it is."
"I've never seen anything like it." Rosie shook her head and went to take the baby from Sarah Jane, who looked on the verge of passing out. "Is that — what is that? How much is it worth?"
Tate popped the bumper off and revealed another long panel in the back of the car, built to blend in with the trunk and even part of the spare tire compartment. He was impressed in spite of himself. And he thought he might have recognized the handiwork. Rosie made a strangled sound when a stack of plastic-wrapped cash fell out and landed with a thump at her feet. "Jesus Christ."
Tate used a spare towel to pick up one of the plastic-wrapped packages, frowning as he studied it, then held it up. "Nope. Benjamin Franklin."
Rosie bounced the baby, giving him a murderous glare. "Tate, I swear to God —"
"How much is that?" Sarah Jane's voice came out shaky and soft, like she was barely hanging on to control.
Tate glanced over at her before he started replacing the bundles of cash and re-secured the panel and bumper. "At least half a million. In cash, that is. The drugs... I don't know what the street value is out here, or the quality, but I'd guess about the same. So this is a million-dollar car."
"Fuckin' a," Rosi
e said, sounding impressed in spite of herself, and Tate chuckled.
"Oh my," Sarah Jane said, followed by a thump.
Tate turned in time to see her faint, though he was too far away to catch her, and he and Rosie just stood there and stared at where Sarah Jane lay on the concrete floor. He frowned as he looked at her, wondering what the hell to do, and was gratified that at least Rosie looked just as confused as he felt. Tate started re-hiding the compartments on the car, so the mechanic wouldn't be tempted to chop the damn thing up as Rosie crouched to check on Sarah Jane.
At least the baby stopped crying when she finally got to sit on her mama's stomach.
Chapter 10
Sarah Jane
The last thing she remembered was watching Tate hold up a bundle of more money than SJ had ever seen in her life, then everything went hot and cold all at once and she just kind of... fell. She still felt woozy and her head ached when SJ opened her eyes, expecting to still be on the floor of the garage next to the car — packed with drugs! — but instead, she was inside. In Rosie's living room.
And when SJ opened her eyes, Tate leaned over her, frowning. The world wobbled around her as she stared up at him, the rest of the room kind of soft and far away as Tate's gaze caught her and something clicked into place. Of course. He was there.
"Easy," Tate said, and shifted a couch pillow under her knees. He flicked a small flashlight in her eyes and SJ winced, still trying to piece everything together. The big guy patted her shoulder as he put the flashlight away. "Sorry. Just had to check your pupils. Do you know what day it is?"
"I hope it's still Wednesday," she said under her breath, and Tate cracked a smile.
He schooled his expression back to a rather stern indifference, but SJ felt like she'd seen the first peek of the real Tate. Maybe he wasn't actually the gruff asshole who lurked at the bar and didn't want to talk to anyone. She started to wonder who he really was, what he dreamed about, what he wanted from life.