by K. A. Tucker
If each block has sixteen rooms—which looks about right—then there are forty-eight rooms in total. And even if some of those rooms weren’t rented that night, some of them had to be. How many people might have seen a third person duck out of 116?
How many of them did Mantis scare into not talking?
We don’t have a list of contacts to track them down. Kristian’s right—we don’t have much.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a curtain shift in Room 201. It’s the last room in Building Two, the room that sits kitty-corner to 116. A wiry old man stands in the window, his skin a dark chocolate, his hair frizzy and going gray at the tips. He’s wearing brown trousers and a rumpled button-down shirt that hangs open to reveal the dirt-smeared white tank top beneath, and he’s simply standing there.
Staring intently at me, not a flicker of a twitch, or a smile. He could pass for a mannequin.
A chill runs down my spine.
“Come on, let’s go,” Noah calls out. “That was the pool-cleaning guy. Cyclops decided he’s a guard dog now and tried to bite him. He said he’d come back later this afternoon as long as we get Cy inside.”
I glance back at the window of Room 201.
The man is gone.
CHAPTER 41
Noah
I stretch my cramped hands as I check the clock on the wall of the small room, empty save for a table and two chairs. Giving my statement took over two hours. “Can I go?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Richards is waiting for you,” Agent Proby says.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Uh-huh.” I get a tight smile in return from the middle-aged blonde woman.
Gracie greets me in the hallway with a wide smile, and my feet falter. She’s happy and hopeful, and I get it. Finally, someone—and not just someone, but the FBI—is working to clear Abe’s name.
I smile back, even with this ever-looming dread that hangs over me. Because the flip side to all this is that it may not be all sunshine and roses for my family. I still don’t know how my mother was involved in what happened to Abe, though—thankfully—she wasn’t part of this Canning-picked investigation team. And Silas . . . I’m beginning to wonder what exactly he knows.
Gracie’s smile wavers. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m famished. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Roping a loose arm around her waist, I pull her to me. We begin walking down the hall.
Agent Proby trails behind to escort us out. “Agent Klein will be in contact with you if he needs clarification,” she says, nodding to the guard.
I let Gracie go ahead of me through security.
She comes to an abrupt stop, and I bump into her. “What’s—” My words cut off as I see the problem—Dwayne Mantis is standing on the other side.
My adrenaline instantly begins racing through my veins.
He hasn’t noticed us yet, his head down, busy checking his gun and other belongings with the guard. An older, bearded man in a gray suit stands next to him, and two other men trail closely behind. One of them looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t place him.
Gracie’s body has gone rigid.
I drop my voice to a whisper, settling my hand gently on her hip. “Let’s slide out of here before—”
“Mr. Mantis!” Klein exclaims from behind us, pulling Mantis’s attention up.
Those beady eyes flicker past us, searching for the source of the voice, but quickly fly back to lock on Gracie.
“Thank you for coming in on short notice.” Klein grins as if completely oblivious to the choking tension in the lobby.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Klein, he’s anything but oblivious. The bastard timed this perfectly. He wants to unsettle Mantis and, unfortunately, he doesn’t care what it does to us in the process.
Finally, Mantis peels that fierce gaze away from Gracie. “Anything to help the feds with a case,” he says calmly.
Klein nods to the man in the suit. “And you are . . .”
“My lawyer, Sid DeHavelin,” Mantis answers for him.
“Lawyer?” Klein mock-frowns. “To answer questions about an old case? Why would you think you need a lawyer?”
Mantis grins, showing off a row of perfectly straight, albeit stubby teeth. “Sid insisted.”
“Alright. I mean, it’s your dime, but waste of money if you ask me. Mr. Stapley, I’m guessing he’s here to waste your money too?” Klein says to the man towering behind Mantis.
Klein is questioning Shawn Stapley, too.
Gracie and I exchange glances.
What pretenses did they come in on, I wonder.
Klein throws a casual wave to us. “Hey, thanks for the help, kids. It’s a wonder what you can dig up, even after all these years, isn’t it? We’ll be in touch soon.”
The prick. He’s toying with them. If it weren’t at the risk of Gracie’s safety, I’d applaud him. I want to punch him in the face again. I settle for spearing him with a glare instead.
He ignores it, holding an arm out in invitation.
Mantis and Stapley pass through the metal detectors with their lawyers close behind.
Klein frowns at Stapley. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah, why?” Stapley’s voice is so smooth and melodious next to Mantis’s. And it’s filled with wariness.
“That looks like blood.” Klein nods toward Stapley’s leg, where a dark spot seeps through his khaki pants at his calf.
“Oh, that.” He brushes it off with a dismissive wave and a chuckle. “Got into a fight with a garden rake in the shed. It won.”
Klein grimaces, and I can’t tell if he’s genuinely sympathetic or it’s all part of the act.
Meanwhile, Mantis walks with a slow, easy swagger, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, like he’s got nothing to hide, not a worry in the world. But before he disappears behind the door, he looks over his shoulder at us.
At Gracie.
His eyes narrow in challenge.
“I am just like my father, you son of a bitch,” she growls, too low for anyone but me to hear.
I loop my arm around hers and guide her out before she starts screaming profanities.
* * *
“We didn’t need that . . . or that . . . Five lemons?” Gracie dangles the fruit in the air in front of her before stuffing it into the fridge drawer. “We can’t possibly eat all this, Noah.”
“You’d be surprised how much I can eat.” I grin, patting my belly. I’m starved, my appetite having come back with a vengeance.
She groans, fishing out the bag of avocados. “You said you don’t eat these. Why would you buy them then?”
“Because I thought you wanted them?” I say slowly, warily.
“I hate avocados!”
I don’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. “Well, if you’d tell me what you want instead of playing your little game, I wouldn’t have had to guess.” I don’t think I’ve ever been more confused in a grocery store than I was today, trailing behind Gracie in the local HEB, watching her fondle fruits and vegetables before quietly putting them back on the shelf. What else was I supposed to do besides scoop them up and put them in the cart?
“It wasn’t a game. It’s . . .” Her voice trails off with a sigh of exasperation.
“It’s what?” I toss Cyclops a dog bone as I rifle through the bags on the counter, looking for a quick snack. She’s right. The two of us can’t eat all this. We shouldn’t have gone shopping while I was hungry.
“It’s stupid. It’s just something I do when I go grocery shopping.” Her cheeks flush.
I settle on an apple, giving it a rinse as I watch her pointedly, waiting for her to explain.
“We couldn’t afford fresh stuff. When I was younger, I’d watch people squeeze avocados and check tomatoes and peppers for bruises, before picking the best ones to put in their cart. So I started pretending I was doing the same thing.
“Then we’d head over to the canned goods aisles, to buy whatever was on sale. Some
times, when no one was looking, my nan would ‘accidentally’ knock an expensive can off the shelf with her elbow, just so it’d dent, ’cause you can get a discount on dented cans.”
“So you never had fresh food?”
“A special treat, here or there. On my birthday and for Christmas. Nan would buy those little Christmas oranges—”
“Clementines?”
“Yeah, those. And a frozen turkey, that she’d bake. Just a small one. But we mostly ate canned tuna. Or Spam. Have you ever eaten Spam?”
“Can’t say I have.” I hide my cringe by biting a chunk out of my apple. My mom likened Spam to the canned dog food we’d feed Jake.
Gracie smiles, but it’s bittersweet. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. I’ll bet the grocery stores around this neighborhood don’t stock a lot of it. Anyway, like I said. It’s stupid.”
“No it’s not.” I reach over to give her slender forearm what I hope is a comforting rub. I let my hand linger there for a long moment, the feel of her silky skin against mine too hard to resist. Thoughts of this morning—of her warm, soft body in my arms, of her pliable lips opening for me—flood my mind and set my heart racing.
But the mood has shifted since this morning, in those brief, intimate moments where there was just her and me. Klein invaded, and then we went to The Lucky Nine and the stark reality of why Gracie’s here in the first place came crashing back. I haven’t had the nerve to kiss her again.
I’ve thought about it a hundred times, though.
And just the thought of Gracie struggling to pay her bills or having to eat canned meat, or living next to a lowlife like that Sims guy, ever again has me panicking. “Hey, so I was thinking, you should move back to Texas.”
She frowns as she pulls away from me—from my touch—to unload more groceries. “Why?”
“Because I have this big house to myself. Why not stay here? You don’t have to pay rent. You could get a job, and save your money.”
“You’re not obligated to pay for what others have done to us, Noah,” she says quietly. She leans over to stuff meat into drawers in the fridge, giving me a view I could sit here and appreciate for days.
“That’s not why I’m doing this,” I insist.
She seems to consider it. “Is it even a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because of—” She cuts herself off, her brow furrowing. “Things are getting complicated.”
Complicated because of what’s happening between us? This thing that’s come out of nowhere, and yet has probably been here all along? At least, it has on my end.
Or complicated with the investigation? With what Silas might know, what he may be lying about?
A soft, shaky sigh sails from her full lips. “Let’s see if Kristian can clear my dad’s name, first. Okay?”
Kristian. Not Agent Klein. Or Klein. She’s calling the FBI agent by his first name.
I grit my teeth and nod.
“Where should I put this?” She hoists the hefty watermelon up.
“In the pantry. Here, let me.” I reach for it, but she sidesteps me.
“I’ve got it.” Cradling it in one arm like a football, she struggles to open the door off the side of the kitchen and then disappears inside. A moment later, there’s a holler of, “God, Noah! There’s enough food in here to feed a family for a year! Why did we even go shopping?”
I give Cyclops a rough pat and then let him outside before heading into the long, narrow room, giving the dangling chain a yank to flood the space with dull light. “See? Another reason to stay in Austin. I need you to keep me in check.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know where you want this thing.”
I slip the watermelon from her grasp, my hand skimming across the flat of her stomach in the process. She inhales sharply, the slight feminine sound rushing blood straight to my groin as I set the fruit on a shelf. “Come on . . . How will I survive without you giving me grief?” I say it with a smile, so she knows I’m teasing.
She slides on a mask of calm indifference. “Hey, I didn’t give you grief for paying a fool’s price for that thing. And there’s no way you’re going to finish it before it goes bad.”
“Actually, it’s all on you. I’m deathly allergic to all melons.”
Her mouth hangs open. “Why the hell would you buy it!” she exclaims, smacking my arm.
I shrug, and then smile sheepishly. “You seemed interested.”
“In the ridiculous size of it, yeah.” She shakes her head. “You’re right. You do need me here to give you grief.” Her throat bobs with a hard swallow, all lightheartedness vanishing. “And I need you because you’re the only one who won’t let me down.”
“But, I have. I didn’t tell—”
“No, Noah.” Her green eyes flitter over my features, stalling on my mouth. “Since you showed up on my doorstep, you have been there for me, every step of the way, whether I deserved it or not. You are everything I could possibly have asked for.” Her face twists with a grimace, as if that’s not a good thing.
The pantry seemed narrow and cramped before. Now I can’t get close enough to her, fast enough. She’s small next to me, and I’m afraid of overwhelming her as my hands settle on her hips, and her head tilts back to meet my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. And we’re not going to let that asshole Mantis, or anyone who’s responsible, get away with this, I swear it.”
She sighs softly, and I revel in the feel of her breath caressing my skin. “You can’t promise that, Noah. What if we find out something about your mother—”
“Then she’s guilty, and I’ll make sure everyone knows it.” As much as that pains me to even say.
A fire smolders in her gaze. “And what if your mother isn’t the only one close to you who did this?”
She doesn’t have to say Silas’s name. “Then that person will get what’s coming to him, too.” My stomach churns with the thought, but I steel myself against that vulnerability, instead filling my thoughts with Abe, with the emptiness I felt standing in that seedy motel room today, staring down at the spot where he took his last breaths.
Alone.
No doubt, spending those moments thinking of this girl standing in front of me, and how she would remember him. “Your dad . . . he was a good, honest man and he deserves for the world to know that.” I push a wayward curl off her face. “And, even under the shitty circumstances, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re back in my life.” I hesitate. “Even if you want it to be just as friends. There’s no pressure here, Gracie. I’m here to stay, no matter what.”
Her eyes settle on my mouth, her own lips parting. “Well, if friends is all you want, then—”
“No, it’s not,” I say, way too eagerly, and then grin, feeling my cheeks heat. I want a hell of a lot more.
A rare wave of shyness radiates from her, and yet she stretches to her tiptoes to trail her cool nose along the side of my neck. “You sure you want to deal with the likes of me? Some people say I’m difficult.” There’s a hint of something in her voice, something exposed. Like she actually may believe that I would second-guess my feelings, that I would decide that she’s too much for me.
My face is buried in her mass of floral-scented curls, so she can’t possibly see my mock frown, but maybe she can hear it in my voice. “Who would say that?”
“I don’t know . . . crazy people?”
“Exactly. I’m not crazy. Are you crazy?” I mimic her words from that first day, remembering how I had to beg her to trust me. Now, those hands that wielded a switchblade are memorizing the feel of my chest. How things have changed.
Her responding chuckle is deep and throaty, sending shivers down my spine. “Sims would say I am.”
I groan at the mention of that asshole. “You really know how to kill the mood.”
“Did I kill the mood for you?”
I shudder against the feel of her tongue trailing along my skin where her nose just touched. And lose my ability to think a
ltogether as her teeth graze my earlobe, at the sound of her shaky breath in my ear as she whispers, “Well, if you don’t feel up to it, I’ll just go and—”
I steal her words with my mouth, my hand slipping around the back of her neck to gain purchase as I kiss her, my fingers weaving into her hair. There’s no hesitation on either of our parts this time, that tentative, sweet tempo of this morning replaced with something more fervent, more needy.
“Believe me, I’m up to it.” My free hand travels down her arm, around her back, pulling her body flush against mine. Erasing any doubt she may have about how “up” to it I am.
Yet still, Gracie goads me. “Prove it,” she purrs against my lips, nose to nose, eyes locked on mine. It’s a challenge.
An invitation.
Maybe, permission.
Whatever it is, I greedily take it, my fingers testing the waistband of her shorts with a quick swipe before slipping beneath her T-shirt. Her breathing turns raspy as I memorize the ridges of her spine first, and then move my hand around to her flat, hard stomach.
Her own hands have found their place on my shoulders now, and they claw and tighten as my fingers venture upward to settle between the swell of her breasts, the lace of her bra itchy against my palm.
Her hands disappear from my shoulders and, a moment later, that lace material loosens, giving me access to her ample breasts. “Since you’re taking your time . . .” She smirks, her fingertips returning to my body—to my chest this time—to softly drag over the ridges of muscle.
I’ve never been nervous with a girl, but with Gracie my gut is rolling with nerves as I push her bra aside and cup her breast, full and heavy within my palm. My thumb grazes against her peaked nipple, eliciting a soft gasp from her against my lips. I’m desperate to see Gracie naked, to trace every one of her curves with my fingers, my tongue.
Yet sudden, rare fear holds me back from making a move.
Fear that she’ll change her mind on a whim, that I want this way more than she does; that, in the end, I won’t be what she wants. I fight desperately to chase that fear away by pulling her mouth into mine, to kiss her like I’m convincing her that I am what she wants. All that she will ever want. I kiss her like I want her to pine over me. I kiss her like I want her to remember this moment in case we never have another chance.