Kickout Clause (Savannah Martin Mystery)

by Bennett, Jenna

  “Bed’s fine.” He scooped me up and carried me down the hallway and through the living room, past the sofa and the dining room table.

  “Are we getting settled and boring?” I asked, a little breathlessly, when my back hit the mattress.

  “Hell, no.” He pulled the T-shirt up and over his head and sent it flying. My gaze snagged on the ripple of muscles in his upper body, rock-hard under the silky softness of golden skin, and my tongue got stuck to the roof of my mouth. He grinned, and dropped his hands to the button of his jeans. “You were saying?”

  “Nothing. I can’t remember.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. “Positive. Don’t stop now.”

  “No.” He pulled the zipper down. I swooned.

  We exited the house through the courtyard the next morning at a quarter of eight, bound for 101 Potsdam Street, to meet the glazer and locksmith. And we were all the way downstairs and in view of Rafe’s Harley before I realized—

  “I don’t have a car.” I stopped in the middle of the courtyard.

  Rafe stopped too, per force. “I’ll drive you.”

  “I can’t ride on the back of your bike. Not in this.” I gestured to my high heeled pumps and flirty A-line skirt.

  Rafe looked at me. His lips curved. “Sure you can.”

  “The skirt will fly up. The whole neighborhood will be able to see my thighs.”

  “They’re nice thighs.”

  They’re fat thighs, I thought, but I didn’t say it. “Thank you, but that doesn’t mean I want to share them with everyone we meet.”

  “Believe me, I don’t wanna share your thighs with anyone else, either. But we’re running late. You don’t have time to go change.”

  No. And jeans aren’t appropriate business wear, anyway, even if they’re perfectly suited for going riding on a Harley.

  “Won’t the skirt get stuck in the spokes? We might have an accident.”

  “It’s too short,” Rafe said.

  Great. “Maybe I should just call a cab. Or a rental car company.”

  “Or maybe you should just climb on and let me take you where you need to go.”

  We’d been living together for going on three months by now, but so far I had avoided getting on the back of the Harley. I had a car, and it worked perfectly well. It had a roof, so when it was raining or snowing, it was more comfortable than the bike. And I wasn’t dressed right. Most of the time I wasn’t dressed right. I’d always managed to come up with an excuse or other why it made more sense to take the Volvo.

  But now the Volvo wasn’t an option. It was either crawling onto the back of the Harley or being late. And a properly brought up lady is never late. To be early is to be on time, and to be on time is to be late.

  “Fine. If I have to.”

  “You don’t have to sound like you’re going to your death,” Rafe said. “You’ll like it. I promise. Here.” He handed me his helmet.

  I looked from it to him. “What about you?”

  “Won’t be the first time I’ve ridden without a helmet, darlin’. I ain’t letting you do it, though.”

  I looked at it again. “My hair will be ruined.”

  “Your hair’ll be ruined if you go without, too. You’ll look like you stuck your head in a wind tunnel.”

  Good point. I sighed and put the helmet on. It took effort to yank it down.

  “Cute,” Rafe said, looking at me. “OK. I’m gonna get on and start the engine. Once I’ve got her upright, you climb on behind me.”

  I nodded. My head felt strangely heavy with the helmet on, and my neck seemed too weak to hold it up. My voice didn’t sound right, either. “All right.”

  He threw a leg over the Harley and did whatever it is he does to start the beast. I had never really paid attention to the steps before, and since I could see very little and hear less through the helmet, I’m sure I missed some of the finer points. But the motorcycle rumbled to life under him. He balanced it between his legs. “C’mon. Lift your skirt, throw one leg over the seat behind me, and sit down. Put your feet on the pegs.”

  I did my best. Lifted my skirt enough to crawl, as demurely as I could, onto the bike behind him. After some searching, I found the pegs he’d talked about. They fit perfectly between my three inch stiletto heels and the rest of my feet. And I imagine I probably didn’t look as graceful as I might have liked, because his voice was husky with laughter when he told me, over his shoulder. “Wrap your arms around my waist and hold on. When I bank, you bank, too.”

  “Bank?”

  “You’ll see. Just do what I do.”

  He moved forward, slowly, out of the parking space. I had my arms wrapped around his waist, and when he suddenly sped up, I squealed and tightened my grip until I came close to cutting off his air. I could feel his stomach muscles quiver, so he was probably laughing at me, but the sound itself was lost somewhere between the wind and the helmet reducing everything to a faint buzz.

  After about two seconds, he turned the corner from Main Street onto Fifth, and I learned what banking meant. He leaned in the direction of the turn, and I leaned too, until it felt like we were at a forty five degree angle to the pavement. I hiccupped inside the helmet, too fearful even to scream anymore, but just when I thought we were going to overbalance and slide, sideways, across two lanes of traffic, he straightened up. I did too, right along with him, and then we shot onto the on-ramp for Ellington Parkway with a roar of exhaust. My skirt was flapping behind me, and I daresay I flashed anyone we passed a little too much leg, but while it was fast and furious and more than a bit scary, it was also exhilarating and fun and a bit like I imagine flying might be.

  The wild ride didn’t last long. It was only two or three minutes later that he exited the highway at Dresden Avenue and slowed down to a decorous 35 mph through the Potsdam neighborhood. We pulled into the driveway of Mrs. Jenkins’s house before either the glazer or the locksmith got there, with a little spurt of gravel. Rafe pulled up in front of the steps and cut the engine. I crawled off the bike, no more gracefully than I’d crawled on, I’m afraid, and pulled the helmet off my head. My head felt too light, like it was about to float away, and my legs were a bit shaky, although between you and me, I must admit the vibrations had been rather nice. The way I’d been plastered against his back, with his butt flexing between my thighs, had been stimulating too, if we’re being honest.

  He grinned at me. “What d’you think?”

  I pawed the hair out of my face. “It was... interesting.”

  One of his eyebrows arched. “Interesting?”

  I flushed. “The... um... vibrations were nice.”

  The grin turned wicked. “You want vibrations, darlin’, I’ll give you vibrations.”

  “We don’t have time,” I said, and the disappointment must have come across in my voice, because he smothered a laugh.

  “Sure we do. They won’t be here for ten minutes.”

  “That isn’t enough time.”

  “Darlin’,” Rafe said, “you’re forgetting who you’re talking to. Gimme five minutes upstairs, and I promise I can show you paradise.”

  I glanced at my watch. Nine minutes and thirty seconds until eight. “You’re on.”

  “Let’s go.” He grabbed my hand and headed for the stairs at a fast enough clip that I had to run to keep up. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who had been motivated by being plastered together on the back of the bike on the way here.

  By the time the doorbell rang, I’d been to paradise and back, and was in the process of putting my clothes on. Rafe was already dressed. “I’ll get it,” he told me. “Just take your time getting yourself together.”

  “Thank you.”

  He grinned at me over his shoulder on his way to the door. “No, darlin’. Thank you.” He winked before passing out of sight.

  I finished buttoning my blouse, and then I headed into the adjoining bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. Only to take a step back from the reflection that stared ba
ck at me.

  It was tempting to blame the motorcycle for the nice pink color in my cheeks and the snarled mess of my hair—the hair I had carefully styled before leaving the apartment this morning, I might add. Now it hung in a messy tangle over one shoulder, and I was pretty sure Rafe’s hands had had something to do with that. It was certainly his fault that I was without my carefully applied lipstick, and the roses in my cheeks and sparkle in my eyes could be firmly laid at his door too, probably.

  Not that I was complaining. Paradise and back in eight minutes flat had been just as big a thrill ride as the trip on the back of the Harley, and as far as I was concerned, I’d be happy to do either activity again any time he wanted. We usually managed our lovemaking at a more leisurely pace (Rafe being determined to reassure me that I wasn’t frigid, as if I had any doubts at all on that score anymore) but this breathless rush to the finish had certainly not left me wanting in any way. Other than the fact that I looked like something the (non-existent) cat had dragged in, anyway.

  I did my best to smooth my hair and reapply lipstick before I headed downstairs, but I’m afraid I appeared rather the worse for wear. When I got to the foyer, the look Tamara Grimaldi gave me said it all. Her lip curled. I flushed to the roots of my still-messy hair, but since she didn’t actually say anything, I couldn’t either.

  “I was just telling your boyfriend,” she informed me, “that Mr. Hanson did not make it home last night.”

  “You had someone watching the place?”

  She nodded. “There’s also been no activity at Mr. Lamont’s Oak Hill house.”

  “So they’re staying somewhere else.”

  “We’re looking into any other property Mr. Hanson might own. Or any family he might have, who is harboring him. Or them.”

  “Do you think they’re together?”

  “That depends,” Grimaldi said. “On whether Mr. Hanson is waiting for a payoff from Mr. Lamont, as soon as Mr. Briggs gets his hands on the money.”

  “Have you spoken to Tim about it?”

  She nodded. “He’s picking up the money from the bank this afternoon. He’s awaiting instructions from Mr. Lamont as to what to do with it.”

  “Do you think he’ll tell you when he gets them?”

  “I’m hopeful he will, but just in case he doesn’t, we’ll keep him under surveillance. I could use your help with that.”

  “I don’t have a car,” I said.

  “I’m aware of that. Just out of curiosity, how did you get here this morning?”

  “On the back of the bike.” I glanced at Rafe, who wasn’t bothering to hide his amusement.

  “I see,” Grimaldi said.

  “That’s why I look like this.”

  “Of course.” She sounded solicitous and understanding. Maybe she’d had her own ride on the back of a Harley at some point. Just as long as it wasn’t Rafe’s Harley, I was fine with that. Or maybe the solicitousness was only skin deep and she knew exactly what we’d been doing since we got here. “All I want you to do as far as Mr. Briggs is concerned, is go to the office and tell me if he leaves.”

  “I can do that. Once we’re finished here.”

  “I’ll stick around,” Rafe said, “and make sure she gets there.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I know you have things to do.”

  “We’re gonna figure out what happened to Manny. But I ain’t risking losing you in the process.” He turned to Grimaldi. “Someone tried to get into her apartment yesterday. I dunno whether she bothered to mention that?”

  “No,” Grimaldi said, eyeing me, “she didn’t.”

  “It was no big deal,” I said. “I was there. I scared whoever it was away.”

  “Did you get a look at the burglar?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t open the door. But it was after I came home from here, after I realized that someone had broken the windows and left the knife in the floor. I assumed it was the same person.”

  “Mr. Lamont.”

  “I can’t imagine who else it might have been. He did vandalize my office.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Once you get there, I want you to stay there, OK? No wandering off on your own. Not even to go home. From now on I want you to have someone with you at all times.”

  “He isn’t going to hurt me,” I protested. “He’s just angry because I put him in prison. But he isn’t stupid enough to try to harm me.”

  “Maybe not. But if you catch him in the process of something like this,” she gestured to the house and the vandalism that had taken place, “who knows what he might do. And he did try to kill you once before.”

  That was true. It had taken place just a handful of feet from here, as a matter of fact.

  The gravel in the driveway crunched as a car turned in from the street. We watched as the glazer’s truck with big plates of glass on the back made its slow way up to the front of the house.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Grimaldi said. “Remember to call me if Mr. Briggs looks like he’s going anywhere.”

  I promised I would, and watched her hustle down the steps to her car while the truck from Cumberland Hardware made its slow and ponderous way up the graveled drive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rafe stuck around while the glazer did his thing with the windows, and the locksmith—who arrived a few minutes later—changed the locks. If either of them minded a six foot three inch TBI agent looking over their shoulders, they didn’t mention it. Then again, I guess maybe they wouldn’t.

  I cleaned up the glass and fingerprint powder from yesterday, meanwhile. I had to find a new broom for the job, since the CSI tech had taken away the one that had been used to break the windows, as evidence.

  We were all still at it by the time nine o’clock rolled around and the potential buyers turned up the driveway, followed by their agent and the home inspector.

  In everything that had happened, I had sort of forgotten about them, to be honest. Or not really forgotten—I knew that’s why we were here, scrambling to get all this done this morning. But they had sort of slipped my mind in all the excitement.

  Now I watched them walk up the stairs with misgiving. Me, I mean, although it looked like they might have some misgivings of their own, given the way they looked around, and the way the female clung to the male’s arm.

  Their agent had point, bounding up to stand in front of me. “What’s going on?”

  “We had a little problem,” I said, smiling brightly. Never mind all the activity going on all around us. Ignore the man changing the locks. And the one leaning over his shoulder. “Someone broke a few windows night before last. I didn’t realize it until yesterday afternoon, when it was too late to get anyone out to fix them.”

  He cast a beady eye on the proceedings. “And the locks?”

  “We thought it safer to change those, as well.”

  Behind him, his clients exchanged a glance.

  The agent was about my age, and painfully trendy in skinny jeans and a band T-shirt, with a scraggly goatee and a tattoo of a skull on his forearm, surrounded by leaves and flowers. He looked positively anemic next to Rafe, who was also wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but a T-shirt that stretched tight across his shoulders and chest, before tapering to a narrow waist. The agent was built more like a fourteen year old boy, and looked like he might be a musician in his spare time. Although if you asked him, he’d probably tell you that real estate was his day job, and music his real calling.

  The clients were even younger, fresh out of college by the looks of them. About the age I had been in my wedding picture. Bright-eyed, fresh-faced, and naive. This latest development seemed to have rubbed off some of the shine. The girl—a wispy little blonde—looked worried as she chewed her bottom lip, while the guy—in suit and tie—looked as imposing as he could at twenty four or so. That, also, paled in comparison to Rafe, who imposes extremely well.

  The inspector took a step back, off the stairs. “I’ll start outside. Give’em time to do what they need to do
in here.”

  He walked back to his truck, where he began wrestling a big ladder down off the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, when it became clear that neither the agent nor the potential buyer was going to help him, Rafe stopped hovering over the locksmith and went to assist. Between them, they lifted the ladder to the ground and carried it around the corner of the house, where I assumed the inspector planned to use it to reach the roof. I didn’t envy him the job. Mrs. J’s house is three stories tall, so it’s a long way up.

  The inspector came back around the corner with Rafe ambling behind. He caught my eye and winked. I smiled back.

  Meanwhile, the inspector informed his clients, “This is gonna take a while. Y’all can leave and come back in three hours, if you want. I should be getting close to being finished by then.”

  “Three hours!”

  “Big house,” the inspector said, with a non-apologetic shrug. “Y’all want me to look at everything, right?”

  The nervous blonde nodded vehemently. The husband or boyfriend snorted. “I can’t leave work again in three hours to come back here.”

  “Y’all don’t have to be here,” the inspector said. “I’ll send you the report when I’m done. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!”

  “It’s gonna take me a little time to fill it out. It’s thirty pages long.”

  “Thirty!”

  The blonde put her hand on the guy’s arm and whispered something. He huffed, but simmered down. “Fine. We’ll wait for the report. We’re certainly paying enough for it.”

  They probably were. Home inspections don’t come cheap, and I knew the name of this inspection company. I hadn’t used it myself, but several of my colleagues had, and I had heard that the inspector was good and thorough and charged accordingly.

  He must be used to dealing with rude clients, because all he said was, “I’ll go get started.”

  He walked away. Maybe the money he got paid was such that he didn’t mind working for jerks.

  The agent turned to his clients. “We can meet back here at noon if you like.”