Текст книги "Monster"

Автор книги: Jessica Gadziala

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Five

Breaker

What the hell was wrong with me?

I never should have put my hands (or mouth) on her. No matter what information I was trying to get out of her. She was small and scared and very seriously contemplating her own death.

And I screwed with her head even more.

It wasn't an excuse that she was fuckin' drop dead gorgeous. Maybe not in the modern way– all ass and tits. She was classic– long legs and perfect bone structure. Couple that with those doe eyes, that sharp tongue, and that temper...

Fuck.

Walking out of the building, I took off on foot, leaving my truck parked out front of the warehouse. It wasn't my place. Plenty of kids liked to use it to drink and fuck and fight. But when my truck was out front, they knew to take their fun elsewhere. It was a dead fuckin' town. There were plenty of other abandoned buildings to break into.

I walked up to the door of the tattoo shop on the corner, slamming my fist into the metal frame until the glass wobbled ominously. It was almost dawn. The place had been closed for hours.

“Better want to fuck or fight if you're showin' up at this hour,” a voice grumbled from inside a few seconds before the door pulled open.

And there was Paine.

And, yeah, that was his real fuckin' name. On his birth certificate and everything. It was an ironic twist of fate that he was a tattoo artist.

He was around my age, three inches taller, and built just about as strong. He was mixed– light skinned but black with startling light green eyes. Shirtless, his entire body was covered in dark black ink up to his jawline. Bitches liked him– partly because he was good looking and partly because he knew exactly what lines to feed them to get them out of their panties in under fifteen minutes.

He took one look at me and sighed. “Drink?” he asked, already moving back in to the shop, past the tattoo rooms, and down a hall that led to his apartment.

Paine liked nice shit. The inside of his studio apartment had been completely redone. Walls skimmed then painted a deep blue. Floors refinished and stained a dark color, just shy of black. The kitchen (which he didn't use) was all state of the art– white subway tile and white cabinets, white marble counter, stainless steel appliances. To the opposite side of the room was his enormous California king bed with a white comforter. In the center of the room, a living area with a deep blue sectional and the biggest flatscreen available.

He walked over to the kitchen where several bottles of booze were standing and poured us each a glass.

I walked over, taking my first round in one shot, and leaning against the counter.

“What you got yourself into now?” he asked, nursing his drink.

“Lex Keith took Shooter.”

The air got noticeably sharper. “What?” he asked, his tone turning lethal.

See... the thing was... me and Shoot went back. Went way back to me finding him sleeping up against my place when I was nineteen. And by “my place” I meant the abandoned storefront I was squatting in. No one gave a shit and I had been there for half a year. Hell, I had the place rigged with cable and electricity by that point.

I walked out my front door, and there he was. Fifteen, small, scrappy.

“Yo,” I said, kicking his creepers with my boots.

His eyes bolted open, his body somehow going from sleeping and sitting to alert and standing in the course of a blink. He wore a pair of black skinny jeans, a white tee, and a leather jacket. The nice kind. The kind that cost a few bucks. He wasn't a street kid. Or he hadn't been for long. His face was on the thin side, his hair a shade of blonde that teetered the edge of brown, cut short, slicked back slightly and dark green eyes.

“What're you...” the rest of my sentence trailed off when, in a blur, his hand went to the waistband of his pants and came back out with a gun. Pointed. Aimed perfectly to put a plug between my eyes. And his fuckin' hand was steady as a sniper.

“Know it's a coward's play, but I'd never beat ya in a fight,” he said, shrugging a shoulder.

“Wasn't gonna fight you, kid,” I said, shaking my head. “Was gonna take you to get some breakfast.”

“Why?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Because I'm hungry,” I said, turning away from him and his gun and making my way down the street.

I didn't get more than five feet before he fell into step beside me.

“You know how to use that gun.” It wasn't a question. Fifteen and he held a gun like a seasoned professional.

“Ain't grow up in Al'Bama without learnin' to use a gun,” he drawled, making it clear he had actively worked to drop his accent.

“Long way from the South,” I remarked, opening the door to the diner up the street.

“Long way from the sonbitch who raised me,” he said easily, giving the waitress who was at least ten years his senior a smile that made her blush. Blush. “So what?” he asked, reading over the menu, “you just a good Samaritan? Helping out the homeless kids on your doorstep?”

“Fuck no,” I said, shaking my head. I had been one of those homeless kids at one point. I knew how important bootstrapping was to their pride. I didn't do hand outs unless someone was really hurting. And even then, half the time it was thrown back in my face. Such was the attitude of the streets. It was something I respected.

“Just the ones who pull guns on you then?” he asked, grinning over his menu.

“Somethin' like that,” I agreed, nodding.

“So you got a name?”

“Breaker,” I said immediately.

At this, I got a brow raise. “Well if you can have a dumb fuck name like Breaker, I can be Shooter.”

From that day on, he was.

“What do you do, man?” he asked a few minutes later, digging into a huge pile of French toast.

“Nothin' I can talk about in a crowded diner,” I said, slipping my eyes toward the table less than two feet from us– an old couple making it no secret they were eavesdropping.

To this, Shooter shrugged. “Need any help?”

And from that day on, he did help.

Fifteen was a lot older in street years. And it was even older when you grew up with a father who used to beat the ever-loving shit out of you anytime he drank. Which was daily. Shooter was fifteen going on thirty. Sharp. Aware. With a surprising control over his emotions. Probably even more so than me. He was funny. Quick with a smartass remark. Even faster with a pickup line. And it always worked. He was a god damn teenage Cassanova.

And when he said he knew how to use a gun, well, it was an understatement. He was a junior champion shooter back in the Yellowhammer state. Best shot I had ever seen.

Until he was in his early twenties though, he worked for me. Helped me case jobs. Gather intel. Grab people if I thought I would have a problem. As he aged, he didn't get big and bulky like me, but his wiry thinness had it's own benefits in a fight.

Then, around the time he hit twenty-three, he decided it was time to branch out. Be his own man. It was a move I had been expecting for a while. And I had also been expecting what he would do.

When you had skills like his with a gun, well, what else would you get into but contract killing?

He took out big gigs– working for the mob or the other crime families, the empires, the big guys.

When it came to my jobs, I made bank.

Shooter made my income seem minuscule.

He sent his shit father a case of the finest scotch money could buy every month.

One could say he was still harboring some daddy issues.

And he had been, for all intents and purposes, the only family I had. A little brother. Someone I gave a fuck about.

And Lex Keith was holding him against me.

“Wanted me to pick up someone named Alex Miller,” I told Paine, snapping out of my memories. “Told me he'd give back Shooter in one piece if I did. So I agreed. The fuck didn't tell me that Alex Miller is a fuckin' chick.”

To this, Paine's shoulders fell. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Got her in the warehouse as we speak. I didn't get much in the way of instructions. Grab her. Hold her. Didn't say till when. Sounded like he wants to... do the dirty work himself,” I said, my words feeling venomous on my tongue.

“Can't let him have her,” Paine said, surprising me.

Paine, unlike me and Shoot, came from a good family. A poor one. With way too many kids in a two bedroom apartment in a shit area. But a good family. With a strong mother and grandmother. Three kickass aunts. And two little sisters. He had a strong, ingrained need to respect and protect women. So, yeah, while he used a lot of them for sex, he never so much as raised his voice to one or made promises or declarations he had no intentions to keep.

He knew exactly what Lex would have in store for Alex.

And no way would he be okay with that going down when it could be avoided.

Problem was, I didn't know how to avoid it.

“I agreed to get her some H so she could end it before he got to her.”

Paine's eyes slid from mine, looking out the window where the sun was starting to pierce through the sky.

“Look, you know I got love for Shoot,” he started, and I knew it was true.

Paine and I got tight just from knowing each other, frequenting the same watering holes, making bets on which one of us would land the hottest chick of the night (up to current times, we were pretty evenly matched). And when Shooter became a big part of my life, he by proxy became a big part of Paine's. It also didn't hurt that Shoot spent a large chunk of his income keeping Paine's tattoo business going. Shoot was a big fan of body modification– piercings (huge gauged ears, tongue piercing, then sometimes his lip, sometimes his nose. It varied. Then there was the ink. He was covered: arms, chest, back. He even had a tattoo of an eagle across the front of his neck, the wings spread out back toward his ears. Shoot spent a lot of time in Paine's chair. The two were close.

When Paine said he had love for Shoot, he meant it.

“But he's a grown ass man. He got into this business. He, like you, knew all the risks. And he looked them in the face and said, 'bring it mother fucker'. Now, this girl... this girl didn't make that choice. No matter how she got herself wrapped up with Lex, no way would it be a fair fight. She's innocent.”

He was right.

Fuck.

“I know that,” I said, pouring myself another round. A silence hung, both of us not sure what lines we were willing to cross. I spoke first. “She's a hacker. That's what she does. And she admitted to try to take him down.”

“Take him down with a computer?” he asked, his voice a mix of amused and disbelieving. “Mini armies haven't been able to take him down. Carting AKs and Molotov cocktails.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. Those early days had been a mess. Cops everywhere. In everyone's business. I took out of town for a year, taking jobs on the other coast just to keep my ass off the radar. Shoot came with, still trying to build up a clientele so he worked part time for me and took off the rest of the time on his own. Lots of sun and money and bitches. Those were the good times. Suddenly, I wished we never came back.

Shoot would be free. I wouldn't have some sexy piece sitting in my train car. And I wouldn't be faced with the impossible choice between them.

“I cross Lex, I get dead too,” I mused out loud. He wouldn't stop by just killing Shoot. That would just be to torment me before he came and took me out as well. Probably making me watch him rape and torture Alex before he did me in just to prove he had the upper hand. “And so would Alex,” I added.

Paine sighed. “Just hide her somewhere, man. Give her some food and cash and a burner and tell her that if she doesn't hear from you in two weeks, to take off. She's a hacker... she can get herself a new identity. She can disappear.”

“Then what, man? Wait for Lex to drag me in and kill me?”

Paine shrugged. “Or find a way to take him out.”

“What? By myself? You said yourself, criminal armies have tried and failed, man.”

“Yeah, but the girl you got locked up... she's been looking into him... she's prolly got a lot on him. Stuff you can use. Ask her for access to it. See if you can use any of it to find a way to take him out.”

“And you expect me to be able to do this all fuckin' level-headed knowin' he's got Shoot and doing god knows what to him?”

“Ain't helping him by standing here talking to me now are ya?”

Well, he had a point.

“Go home. Get some sleep. Get that poor girl some food. Then get her to agree to let you look over her files.”

“Yeah,” I said, putting my glass down, suddenly feeling the weariness seep into my bones.

I couldn't bring myself to go home, instead grabbing a sleeping bag and sleeping at the top landing of the stairs leading to the train car. When I had checked in on her when I got back, I had found her burrowed under the blankets I had given her, lying on her side, hood up, hands under her face in prayer position, dead asleep.

On a cold, hard, dirty, bloody metal floor.

Feeling very much like the worst kind of savage, I fell into an exhausted sleep.

Six

Alex

Waking felt a bit like death warmed up. Every bone in my body felt brittle. My skin felt frozen and the entire side that had been lying on the ground felt sore. I sniffled against the cold morning air, pushing slowly into a seated position, grumbling as everything creaked and objected to motion.

My hand went up and across my body, massaging the sore muscles of my shoulder.

“Sorry about the floor,” Breaker's voice found me and my head jerked up to find him watching me from beside the doors, leaning against the wall, looking very much like he had been there a while.

“Were you watching me sleep, you creep?” I asked, my words more than a little surly. I was not, in any way shape or form, a morning person. Least of all when I spent my night tossing and turning on a cold, hard floor.

“It's noon,” he said, shrugging.

“That's not an answer,” I said, slowly getting onto my feet, rolling my shoulders.

“Come here,” his voice called, sounding almost soft.

My brow went up. “Is that an order?”

“Christ, woman, how are you so moody the second after you wake up?”

“Maybe it has something to do with being held against my will,” I said, crossing my hands over my chest.

“Or maybe you're just a bitch,” he said, giving me a smirk.

I felt my eyes lower. “You're an asshole.”

“Yep,” he agreed, not the least offended. “Now come over here,” he urged, letting his hands drop down by his sides.

Alright.

It was crazy to go to him.

I knew that. On a rational level.

But someone did not tell my feet that.

Which may or may not have had something to do with the fact that the cold, hard floor wasn't the only reason I had been tossing and turning all night. No, that also had a little something to do with a dream I kept having involving the badass blonde-haired, bearded, Hulk of a man telling me to come to him.

Let's just say the dream was very vivid.

And very dirty.

When I was within a foot of him, his arms moved out, reaching for my shoulders, and sinking into them– wrenching a half-groan, half-whimper out of my mouth. At that, the humor dropped from his lips and his eyes got intense.

“Why are you massaging my shoulders?” I asked, having to lick my dry lips.

“Why do you have to question everything?” he countered, his hands simultaneously rubbing and pulling me closer, closing the gap between our bodies until there was just a breath of air separating us, giving his hands more free reign of my back. I genuinely had to concentrate to prevent myself from leaning against him. Like... it was a problem. “After I left here last night, I went to see a friend of mine.”

“You... left me!” I exploded, wrenching away from him, eyes bulging, as the heat spread across my body. He left me. Trapped in a train car. That was locked from the outside. Leaving me completely defenseless. Anyone could have wandered into the obviously abandoned building. Anyone could have found me and done... whatever the hell they wanted to do with me. While he was off gallivanting with his freaking buddies.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” he grumbled, looking upward, half-rolling his eyes. “Here we go...”

“Yeah... here we go. What is wrong with you? Anyone could have come in here, seen me all defenseless and raped and killed me!”

“Five seconds of listening to that mouth and they'd lose interest in the task, trust me.”

The... task?

Meaning... raping me or killing me?

Either way, it was kind of insulting.

“I hate you,” I said. Childish, I know. But he brought that out of me. What fun was it to argue with someone when all they did was answer in a perfectly normal, unaffected tone? It did nothing but further enrage me.

“That's unfortunate because you're about to be working with me.”

My mouth had opened to say something, then clamped shut as soon as his sentence ended, hanging in the air.

“I think I misheard you,” I said after a minute.

“Heard me just fine. You and me... we are going to find a way out of this mess.”

This... mess?

Meaning... me being killed (or killing myself) because of Lex Keith?

“Why?”

Breaker let out a long breath, leveling his eyes with mine. “Lex took someone who means somethin' to me. He did this because he wanted me to get you and he damn well knew I don't extend my... services to women.”

“Really?” I found myself asking, surprised.

“Yeah, doll, really. If your name didn't sound like a man, we wouldn't be standing here right now.”

I believed him.

“Who does he have?” I found myself asking.

Without even a hesitation, “My brother.”

“Your brother?” I asked, my voice a small whisper.

I knew nothing of siblings. Hell, I knew nothing of friends. But I could imagine. I could imagine that bond. I could imagine the kind of gut-twisting horror you would have inside when you realized someone you loved was at the hands of Lex Keith.

No wonder he was willing to go through with the deal even though he didn't deal in women.

I looked back up, knowing there was a small piece of my heart in my eyes. “What do you need from me?”

“I need to know what you have on him,” he answered immediately.

I nodded, reaching up toward the collar of the sweatshirt and reaching in, grabbing the chain I had worn around my neck for so long that I barely even realized it was there anymore. I slipped it over my head, holding it out and watching as Breaker's big, scarred hand took it.

“A key?” he asked.

“Locker key,” I answered, nodding. “To that gym on Willow.”

At this, his brow went up. “The gym on Willow?” he repeated, a smile starting to tug at his lips. “The gym owned by the Mallick's?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding.

There weren't many organizations that refused to kowtow to Lex's demands. So far, from what I could tell, the only ones who didn't line his pockets were the Henchmen MC, Lyon the cocaine king, the people of the survivalist camp called Hailstorm, and the Mallick family– a group of notorious loan sharks who didn't seem to have any alliance whatsoever to any of the other crime organizations.

I could have hid my information with the Henchmen. But, to be honest, they scared the hell out of me. And I knew Richard Lyon would have forced me into some kind of trade. And I didn't want to owe anyone.

And Hailstorm, well, survivalists were weird. I half worried I'd walk in there to make a deal and never walk out because they like... brainwashed me or something.

So, in the end, the Mallicks were the safest bet. I went to the gym, asked for Shane, and asked if he could give me access to a private locker. After about ten minutes of his shameless brand of suggestive flirting, he finally agreed to let me use a locker in the staff room in back for fifty bucks a month.

It was safe even if it was a little steep... so I agreed.

“You're smarter than I was giving you credit for,” he said, slipping the chain into his pocket.

“Gee thanks,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You'll have to bring me.”

“Why?”

“Because Shane and I have an arrangement.”

“You,” he said, his head ducking, making it clear he wasn't quite buying it, “have a deal with Shane fuckin' Mallick?”

I felt my shoulders push backward. Was this another 'because I have tits' thing? Just because I was a chick meant I couldn't have strong connections with some of the local bad guys?

“Does this deal involve you fuckin' him?”

I jerked back like he had slapped me. Surprised, sure. Offended? Definitely.

“Excuse me?”

“You met him. You know what he's like.”

“So the only way he would help me would be by extorting sex from me?” I asked, my voice getting snippy. “Just because you're a pig doesn't mean everyone else is.” There was that weird crinkling by his eyes again and I felt myself suck in a deep, steadying breath, before just... exploding, “Don't you dare eye-smile at me!”

At this, I got a surprised chuckle. “Eye-smile?”

“Yes, eye-smile. Like when your eyes go all crinkly but your lips don't turn up.”

“Been paying a lot of attention to me, huh, doll?”

Oh my god.

Seriously.

He was the most obnoxious person I had ever met.

And arrogant.

Even more than Shane Mallick.

Which was really saying something.

“I have nothing else to stare at but your ugly mug,” I spat, hoping it sounded convincing, knowing damn well it was as far from the truth as you could get.

“Ugly mug,” he mused, his lips pressing together. “Got a problem with how I look, Alex?” he asked and I felt a shiver run through my body at the sound of my name on his lips. All I could hope was the shiver was an internal one and he couldn't see.

That hope lasted about one-tenth of a second when a satisfied smirk toyed at his lips and I knew it had been a body shiver.

Damn it.

But I didn't have to suffer long in my humiliation.

Because one second, I was just standing there, arms crossed over my chest, trying to focus on not blushing.

The next I was slammed up against the wall where he had just been standing. His body crushed against mine, both his hands cradling my jaw. And before I could draw in breath to object, his lips crashed down hard on mine.

My entire body jolted in surprise, a stab of desire meeting at the contact and shooting in a straight line down my stomach to between my thighs.

I had the barest of seconds to realize that his beard tickled before my brain registered his lips on mine. Hard. Demanding a response. And mine were all too happy to acquiesce.

The second they started responding, his hands tightened on the sides of my face as his teeth dug into my lower lip. A whimper escaped me, my hands moving out to grab at the shirt covering his sides, digging into the muscles of his obliques. Because I needed to hold on. If I didn't hold on, I was pretty sure I was going to fall. My legs (and everywhere else for that matter) went liquid.

Breaker tilted my head slightly, his tongue pressing into the crease of my mouth and snaking inside. Not teasing mine. Not toying with it. Claiming it.

That was how I felt.

Claimed.

One of his hands slipped from my jaw, moved back into the hair at the base of my neck, curling into it, and yanking hard enough for me to yelp as his lips slipped around my tongue and sucked hard.

And that's when my legs gave out.

His other hand shot down my body, grabbing me around the hips and hauling me against him.

But not for long. His lips released my tongue. His teeth dug into my lower lip. And then he was pulling away from me. Releasing my hair. Pressing me back against the wall. And stepping away.

I took a deep breath, my eyes fluttering open.

To find him standing there.

Fucking eye-smiling at me again.

“Dunno, doll,” he said, and the smile spread to his lips, “might not like how I look... but seems you like how I feel.”

Oh my god.

Okay.

I needed to not rise to the bait.

I needed to, for once, have control over my temper.

“Oh, get over yourself,” I said, affecting a bored tone. “You don't feel all that great either.”

The smile didn't falter. He closed the space between us slightly, his eyes glued to mine and it took everything in me to not look away. To not chicken out.

“If I took my hand,” he said, the offending appendage slipping down my side slowly, “and slipped it inside your panties... how much you wanna bet that sweet little pussy would be nice and wet for me?”

“You wouldn't...” I started, then his thumb pressed into my hipbone hollow, making my air rush out of my lips.

“Wouldn't I?” he asked, the tips of his middle and ring fingers dangerously close to toying with the material of my panties over my yoga pants. “I wouldn't have to, though,” he said, lips twitching, “if you admitted it to me.”

I swallowed hard, both turned on and terrified of him... seeing for himself. But also absolutely horrified at the prospect of admitting I was turned on. “Admit what?” I asked.

“Admit that your pussy is wet from me just kissing you.”

Just. Just ?

That wasn't just anything.

I was pretty sure the world bent off it's axis for the duration of that kiss.

“I'm equally happy with the other option,” he offered, his hand sliding to the waistband of my pants.

Holy hell.

Okay.

I needed to shut this down.

Because if his hands got down my pants...

No.

Wasn't letting my mind go there.

Because if my mind went there, I was pretty sure I'd want his hand to go, well, there.

I felt my cheeks getting hot, knowing they were getting beet red. My eyes fell from his. I could say it. I had the mouth of a sailor. I could push out the words. I just couldn't look at him while I did so. I felt myself leaning forward, my forehead bumping into his chest slightly.

“I'm wet from you kissing me.” It came out as a strangled croak, but I got it out.

His hand slid away from my waistband and to my utter relief, he didn't laugh. He didn't rub my nose in it.

His hand traveled up my spine until it landed at the back of my neck, settling there for a second, squeezing, then releasing me.

“Alright. Let's go see Mallick.”

And then his body was gone and he was moving toward the door, not even bothering to see if I was following behind. But, with very little choice, I did.

“Um, Breaker,” I tried as I made it to the top of the landing.

“Yeah?” he asked, moving to look out the front windows.

“I don't have any shoes.”

His head snapped back to me, dropping to my feet where his (I was assuming they were his) huge socks were swallowing up my feet. “Right,” he said, making his way toward the door. “I'll be right back.”

“Ah... you're just going to leave me here? Not locked up?”

He turned back, giving me a small smile. “You didn't seem too keen on being locked up when I wasn't around.”

“So you're just going to... trust me to stay here?”

“Where else you gonna go that Lex can't get to you?”

He had a point.

He nodded at me, then walked out the door.

Alone, I considered running. I wasn't an altogether unforgettable girl. I was average in most ways. I could slip into a crowd and disappear. I could take off somewhere. Lay low. Stop hacking so I didn't have a trail. Adopt a new identity.

But, honestly, what were the chances that I could give up the only thing that mattered in my life?

If I got away, I'd still try to take him down. And he would find me. And that time I wouldn't have someone else (a big, hulking, bad guy) who obviously wanted to help me. Or get me heroin to off myself with.

I wouldn't even know where to get heroin.

Well, that's not true.

I knew where to get it.

The problem was that all the places to get it were people who Lex, in one way or another, owned.

I took a deep breath, pulling my hood back up, putting my face into its depths, and moved over toward a window to look out. There were none of Lex's cars on the street. He had four different ones his surveillance guys used. A early model Ford that resembled an old cop car, a slick silver late model Mercedes, a teenager's typical orange hatchback, and a beat up blue pick-up truck. A car for every kind of neighborhood.

But all I could see on the street were people milling about. Teenagers mostly, obviously skipping school. The cars that were around had no one inside them.

Lex wasn't keeping tabs on Breaker?

That didn't sit right.

Something was off...

“I didn't have a size,” Breaker said, coming in, a shoebox in his hands. “But these should fit regardless. Unless you have feet like a man,” he said, popping off the lid of the box and producing a pair of faded brown combat boots. New, but they looked distressed.

I might have maybe loved them a little bit.

“I'm an eight,” I said, watching him move toward me, placing the boots next to my feet.

“These are a nine. They should be fine.”

With that, I slipped into the boots and watched, in maybe a little bit of amazement, as he laced them up for me.

I don't ever remember anyone tying my laces.

In fact, I remembered my shoes until I was almost a teenager having velcro straps. I'd never even seen my mother bent over my feet when I was growing up.

He stood and I shimmied out of his enormous sweatpants which slid easily over the boots, only making me stumble slightly. I would take off the sweatshirt when we got there. It was too cold to think about only being in a lightweight tee any longer than necessary.

“Alright,” I said, looking up to find him watching me, his eyes guarded.

He gave me a chin lift and made his way to the door. “Keep the hood up until I've driven around enough to make sure we don't have a tail.”

I nodded, but added, “None of his cars are here.”

Breaker looked back over his shoulder at me, brows drawn slightly in, but said nothing.

His truck was nice. Something my chemical-induced unconsciousness hadn't allowed me to notice the night before. New, black, expensive, massive. Breaker made bank. As I climbed up, having to haul my body upward with the use of the hold bar, I absently wondered about where a man like him lived.

Hell, for all I knew, he had some kind of apartment in that warehouse somewhere.

That almost seemed to suit him.

“You gonna get out or sit there all day?” he asked, making me start.

I had been so lost in my own little world I hadn't even realized he had parked and cut the engine. I pulled my seatbelt and reached for the hem of my shirt, dragging it quickly up and off.

“Sure you want to go in there like that?” he asked casually, but it made a shock of insecurity shoot through my system.

In typical me-fashion, I turned that insecurity to anger. “What's wrong with what I have on? If you don't like my clothes then maybe you shouldn't have come into my apartment and...”