Текст книги "Surviving Ice "

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

After a long pause, Sebastian offers, “Well, then it could be nothing.” His face is unreadable. “People in the neighborhood would have heard about your uncle’s death, and unfortunately that means that thieves would assume the house is an easy target.”

I study his face. “But you don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because they tore the place to shreds and smashed the flat-screen—the only thing worth stealing in there.”

He sighs, his gaze drifting out the window. “Could have been jacked up on drugs. Could have been pissed off that there was nothing there to take. Whatever the reason, you’re not stepping foot in that house without me again for now. Understood?”

“For now? What does that mean?”

He slides the key into the ignition and cranks the engine, but doesn’t answer.

I guess the bodyguard who showed his protective head last night is here to stay. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“No one said you did.”

“I’m serious. I’m not paying you to do this. I can’t afford it.”

He snorts. “I never asked you to.”

Then why are you still here? “Don’t you have things you need to do? People to see?” Maybe that’s the issue. Maybe he has nobody else to fill his time with. Maybe he’s a complete loner, married to his job, with no friends or family. I really don’t know him at all.

He turns to level me with a look. “Do you want me to have something else to do today?”

I hesitate, before admitting casually, “Well, not necessarily, but—”

“Then shut up and stop trying to get rid of me.” He pulls out of Dakota’s driveway.

I press my lips together to keep from smiling.

“I would reco white. A nice, crisp one, like . . .” Fausto, a thirty-something-year-old guy with slicked black hair hiding beneath a baseball cap and a heavy New York accent, pulls out a deck of paint colors, fanning them out on the dirty floor in front of me. “. . . Ghost or Ice.”

“White for Black Rabbit?” I don’t bother to hide the skepticism in my voice. I spin slowly around, taking in the main room. Without all the clutter to hide the dinginess, this place looks atrocious at best. As a customer, I’d take one look in here and turn around, with thoughts of hep C screaming inside my head. Fair enough.

But white?

“As a starting off point, yeah. You can weave in some bold colors—a nice jammy red over on that wall there, an indigo or peacock blue over here. Maybe hammered-bronze ceiling tiles. Tons of possibilities. I’ll help you make your shop stand out.”

“We’re selling this place,” I’m quick to say.

He shrugs. “All right. Fine. Then leave it as a blank canvas for whoever comes in, because everyone has their own spin. Just get rid of this black. The grunge look is dead. People want a nice, clean environment.”

I chew my lip in thought. I’m always so sure of colors and design when it comes to my sketchbook and a skin canvas, but for some reason I can’t see past Ned’s version of his shop. He’d be rolling in his grave over this.

“But, hey, if you don’t want to listen to someone who actually knows what he’s talking about, then, sure, we can go with your plan and you guys can lose a boatload of money,” Fausto adds.

He’s a cocky bastard.

He sounds just like me, when I’m convincing someone that my design is better than whatever they have in mind.

I turn to Sebastian, who stands with his arms folded over his chest. The other painter already stripped the window of its shade in order to prepare all the work surfaces—filling holes, patching cracks—so the front of the store is wide open and bare. He looks every bit the guard that he said I didn’t need, surveying the street. I’m starting to think he was lying to me.

“What do you think, Sebastian?”

He turns at his name, his eyebrow pops up from behind dark sunglasses. He has no idea what I’m talking about. He’s barely paid two seconds of attention to me since we stepped in here. The flirtatious guy from last night, who had his hands on me at every chance, has disappeared, replaced with this cool, detached replica of the first day we met.

“I was going to have him paint everything black again but he said—”

“Go with Ice.” He turns back to watch the street again.

I smirk. He’s probably always listening, and watching, even when I don’t know it.

I heave a sigh. “All right, Fausto. I’m going to trust you on this.” What do I care? Ned is dead and repainting it black isn’t going to bring him back. Stripping it of all character and personality might give some closure.

Fausto claps his hands together. “Buono! I’ll get this mixed. Jimmy will stay and prep.”

I dangle the spare key on a finger and then toss it to his waiting hands. “How long do you think this will take?”

“Depending on how many coats it takes to cover the black . . .” His face twists into an exaggerated frown with his thought, reminding me of Ned. “With two more of my guys to help, give us three days and we should be done.”

“All right. You have my number if anything comes up.” I glance at Sebastian. “Ready to go, driver?”

He nods, not acknowledging my dig with so much as an eyebrow spike, now focused on Fausto. “If anyone shows up here and starts asking questions or is poking around, I want you to take down a physical description and call Ivy immediately.”

Fausto snorts. “What the hell do I look like? I’m the painter, not your fucking secretary.”

Sebastian slides his glasses off and takes several steps forward, peering down at the short Italian man. There’s a shift in the air. I can feel his dominance radiating; he somehow seems taller, stronger, his presence more ominous. I think I’m going to have to dive in between them. Sebastian can’t go breaking my painter’s arms. “This is important. I would appreciate the help.” His tone is always on the clipped side. Now, though, it’s laced with a threat.

“Yeah. Okay. Either me or Jimmy will relay to Ivy if something comes up,” Fausto mumbles, adjusting his baseball cap several times as he takes a step back.

I slip a hand around Sebastian’s arm and tug his arm. “Ready?”

He slides his glasses back over his eyes. With a hand on the small of my back, he leads me out without another word to the guys.

“What was that?”

“That was your painter being smart.” He opens the passenger-side door for me, his eyes veering to the left and right. Everywhere but to me.

I sigh and climb in.

The broom handle clatters loudly against the tile floor and I gasp at the sudden noise.

Sebastian simply props it up in the corner again without a word. I’ve been jumpy since the moment we climbed the steps out front, and I’ve done a terrible job of hiding it.

I hate that the assholes who did this have made me nervous to simply be in this house.

Shaking it off, I right the wooden end table in the living room and focus on the silver lining. “At least this makes cleaning the house out and getting it ready to sell easier for me.” Pretty much everything—right down to the Raisin Bran and mac & cheese from the kitchen pantry—is now trash. I need to rent a Dumpster.

“What did the insurance company say?” Sebastian asks, leaning the smashed flat-screen TV against the wall, giving me a good view of his muscular backside.

“It said, ‘We’re sorry that your uncle didn’t pay his premiums in time and have fun with this giant mess, suckers.’ ” After a moment, I look up to see Sebastian simply standing there, staring at me.

“What?” I snap, though I don’t mean to.

He gives his head a quick shake and then calmly says, “You’ll need new locks on these doors right away.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that.” I sigh, tossing the broken lamp onto the torn-apart couch. “I guess I’m going to hire a locksmith.”

“I can put new locks on for you.”

“You’re a bodyguard and a locksmith?”

He smirks, like there’s some sort of inside joke. “No, but I know a lot about locks.”

I’m not going to ask. Maybe it’s something he picked up in the navy. Besides, refusing his help hasn’t even crossed my mind today. Since stepping into this house in broad daylight, I’ve been nothing but quietly relieved that Sebastian didn’t drop me off and leave, that he feels the need to stay with me, for whatever reason.

A loud, abrupt holler of “Hello?” from the doorway makes me jump again.

I curse and spin on my heels to see Detective Fields stepping over the threshold, sliding his sunglasses off his clean-shaven face to hook the arm in the front of his olive-green dress shirt, his gaze taking in the destruction.

“I take it you got my message.” I left it this morning, on our way to meet the painters, just like Ian told me to. But honestly I assumed I wouldn’t be hearing from him again.

“I did.” He has an even, calm don’t-mess-with-me way about him. Almost bored. I can’t tell if he even likes his job. I haven’t seen him smile much. Then again, most people say I don’t smile much either, and I love my job.

“And?”

A piece of broken glass crunches under his shoe as he comes to stop a few feet from me, glancing at Sebastian, who keeps working away. “And I agree that it is too coincidental.”

“Have you talked to the cops who were here last night?”

He nods slowly. He’s an attractive enough guy, though ordinary looking. He’s in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair, cut with four-inch clippers all the way around. Someone you’d expect to see in a picture with two kids, a wife, and a sweater-wearing dog. “I saw a copy of the preliminary report. They have no prints and no witnesses to work from yet, unfortunately.”

“Great, so basically a dead end.” Just like Ned’s murder. Surprise, surprise. I’m beginning to feel firsthand how easy it is to get away with crime in this city.

“Not yet. They’re thinking the culprits are probably either a bunch of vandals who like to destroy homes, or someone Ned owed money to, coming to search.”

Money. Sebastian asked about Ned owing money.

Fields stretches on his tiptoes to study the hole in the wall where the vent cover was ripped off.

“I guess that would explain that, then.”

“Did your uncle ever mention anything about owing money to Devil’s Iron?” Fields asks, turning his attention back to me, in time to catch my frown.

“No. Why?” They’re still after the biker gang for this?

“I have a source that says Ned was into it large with them.”

“But . . .” I frown. Bobby told me there was nothing there. Unless the sneaky fuck was lying to me.

Fields gestures at the vents and the holes in the wall. “This, to me, looks like someone on the hunt for hidden cash in hopes of settling up a debt that otherwise won’t get paid.”

Because corpses don’t pay.

“I’ll send some guys over to feel them out,” he offers.

“Thanks,” I mutter, my anger boiling. Those assholes were supposed to be Ned’s friends. Would they do something like this?

Fields heads out with a single nod toward Sebastian, leaving me stewing in silence. What did they expect? That there’d be wads of cash hidden in the walls? Maybe there was. If that’s the case, then I guess I’m safe from a repeat visit. But if not . . .

I just want to get this over with and go back to Dakota’s.

“There’s a Home Depot not far from here. If I give you cash, can you—”

“Nope. You’re not staying here alone,” Sebastian replies quickly. He was silent during the detective’s visit—although I’m sure he was listening to every word.

I really don’t want to either, but there’s just so much to do . . . “It’s fine. The lock on the handle still works. Besides, who’s going to come back a second time? There’s nothing left to steal or break.”

Sebastian stands, pulling off his work gloves, and levels me with a look.

I rest my arms over my chest. “Are you always this bossy and paranoid? Or do you know something I don’t know, because if you do, maybe you should tell me so we don’t spend all afternoon arguing. Look at what I have to deal with.” I stretch my arms out at the mess. “It makes way more sense for you to grab the locks and me to keep collecting this shit so we can be done with this mess and I can go have a nap because I’m so damn tired of this nightmare,” I ramble on.

In three quick strides he’s over the pile of stuffing torn from the couch and on me, his fingers weaving into the back of my hair as he pulls my mouth to his.

The kiss is hard and fast, lasting just long enough to remind me of last night on the front steps before everything fell apart. “Shut up and get your purse,” he whispers. He turns and strolls out the front door.

And I follow, quietly, my senses suddenly wide awake.

TWENTY-TWO

SEBASTIAN

What the fuck is happening?

I go from hunting down a videotape with a highly sensitive, incriminating, and libelous confession to picking out paint colors and shopping for locks with the woman who used to be a potential target.

And I’m enjoying it.

Then again, I let that same potential target permanently mark my body with her hands. And I fully plan on being inside her the first chance I get.

So, this situation was already all kinds of fucked-up, even before today.

“Okay. What do you think about this?” Ivy holds up a dead bolt. “Schlage. That’s a good brand, right?”

“Not as easy to pick as some of the others.”

She shoots a sideways glance but doesn’t ask any questions, tossing it into the shopping cart, already filled with trash bags and new lightbulbs, to replace the ones that were smashed. Bentley’s guys had no reason to go as far as smashing lightbulbs. “Then I think we’re good, unless you need any other tools?”

“Nope.” Her uncle’s toolbox was well stocked, though its contents were scattered all over the garage floor.

“Okay, then. Cash register it is,” she says through a sigh. She seems to be taking this all in stride, though by her jumpiness and the look of dismay on her face when we saw the interior of the house in daylight earlier, she’s far from fine.

Ivy pushes the shopping cart down the aisle, not checking to see if I’m following.

I smile at her back. She changed out of that soft pink shirt the second we stepped into the house, switching it for a blood-red loose-fitting one that falls off one shoulder and covers that fantastic ass, and has the word FIERCE scrawled across the back.

How appropriate.

It’s that ferocity that keeps reeling me in tighter.

But I’m glad she’s also not arguing with me every step of the way anymore. She knows, or at least suspects, that what happened at Ned’s house is not complete coincidence, even though I tried to distract her with lame theories about neighborhood vandals that she saw right through. And I know that if her uncle ever made any comments about Dylan Royce to her, she hasn’t made any connections to any of this.

I can’t decide if having Ivy think that the burglary is tied to a biker gang and her uncle’s debts is a good idea. It’s definitely a convenient cover story for Bentley’s purposes. The detective’s visit today did help answer some questions for me, though. Mainly, why Ned Marshall would try to blackmail Alliance for money. If he owes a biker gang like Devil’s Iron, that might be reason enough.

But I want to throttle Bentley right now, because he’s fucked her over large. That house is a wreck. It’s thousands—easily—in repairs. I should not do this. I should not offer . . . “I’ll help you patch the walls and fix the other damage.” Why the hell did I just promise her that? I’m gone as soon as this assignment’s over. I have no reason to stay.

She spins on her heels as she keeps walking, facing me.

“Unless you’re going to refuse and tell me that you know how to patch holes and plaster walls, and you don’t need any help,” I add with a small smile. That’s what she probably would have done just days ago. That’s basically what she did do just days ago.

“Oh, so you’ve figured me out so quickly, have you?” Her gaze trails over my body. “You’re a handyman, too?”

“I know a bit about home construction.” It’s been years since I held a hammer for something that doesn’t involve scaring criminals into giving me answers, but there was a time when my dad and I would work together on our little family cabin near Lake Tahoe. I wonder if they still have it.

“Do you wear one of these?” She reaches over and pulls a tool belt off the shelf, letting it dangle from her index finger with a secretive smirk on her lips.

“If you want me to.”

Her eyebrows spike in amusement. I’d pay to read what I’m sure are dirty thoughts going through her mind. I’m glad she still has those, despite the mess she’s dealing with right now.

She tosses the belt back onto the shelf and continues down the aisle without another word about my offer. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she calls over her shoulder, leaving the cart and heading down the hall that leads to the restrooms.

I follow and veer left, into the men’s room. A piss is a fantastic idea. I’ve had too many coffees to count, trying to stay awake after another near-sleepless night.

It’s empty inside—these places usually are. I know because I spend a lot of time in public restrooms and it’s rarely to relieve myself. They’re private locations, perfect aids for insidious acts, like the extremist who ducked into a café restroom in Paris to fix the trigger wire on his vest of C4, intent on blowing himself up during the Bastille Day parade. Bentley had sent me after him to learn about his associations, but when I realized what he was about to do, that assignment ended with a bullet in his head at an angle to make it look like suicide. I even left my gun.

Surprisingly, the media gobbled it up, pegging it as a suicide bomber with a guilty conscience, who couldn’t go through with it at the eleventh hour.

It was the only time I’ve ever defied Bentley’s orders, but he commended me for it. I saved so many lives that day, and no one will ever know except Bentley and me.

But today I’m just a normal guy, taking a leak in the Home Depot urinal.

The door creaks open behind me as I’m washing my hands. It’s just instinct for me to check my peripherals at all times when someone is entering my circumference.

The guy from the club is standing three feet away from me.

“You’re Bentley’s guy.” He’s not asking. He’s making a statement, a stupid one, because you never walk into a public place and name names.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I move to leave the restroom but he grabs my forearm and squeezes tight.

“Then who the fuck are you?” His Chicago accent is thick.

Someone faster and better trained than this ex-Marine.

It takes a split second for me to turn the tables, twisting out of his grip. He’s quick, though, and he takes a swing, catching the edge of my lip with his knuckle. I taste copper almost immediately.

I deliver a return hit across the jaw.

So much for being just a normal guy.

This can’t be happening in the men’s room of Home Depot, though. Any second, someone could come in, see what’s developing, and call the cops. That wouldn’t be good for me. Dragging him to the large handicap stall at the end, I shut the door before delivering a hard blow to his nose, feeling the bones and cartilage smash beneath my knuckles. “I think the right question is, Who the fuck are you and why are you tailing me? You were told to stay away from me.” And how did he tail me? I was watching, the entire drive from Ivy’s house. At one point I thought we had someone on us, but whoever it was turned off and I dismissed it. These guys must be in more than one car. I’m an idiot.

“Fuck . . .” He grits through the pain, holding a hand up to his nose as blood pours from both his nostrils. A serious burn mark mars the skin on the back of his hand.

“Come on . . . We’re on the same team.”

“I work alone.” I may have felt a connection to him, given our common background, our shared ties, but he’s pulling this kind of shit here?

“You work for Bentley, don’t you?” he asks this time.

“Shut the fuck up about him. Why did you break protocol to come in here?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I cringe at his smile, his teeth coated in blood now. “The video with that bastard Royce blabbing about what happened cannot get out. The stuff he would have said . . . you get it, don’t you? Some of the things we have to do to get a job done? Would you want everyone finding out about that?”

I’m fighting against the compassion I feel for this guy. He and I are the same in that sense. I have enough skeletons in my closet to fill a cemetery. I sure as hell wouldn’t want them aired to the world for all to know.

For Ivy to know.

Fuck . . . if Ivy knew what I’ve done, why I’m even here, she’d want nothing more to do with me.

Would she?

The fact that I even care is concerning.

But there’s something about his words that is distracting me more . . . Bentley said that the video is full of bullshit, lies.

This guy’s making it sound like there’s truth there.

“Civilians don’t understand. Ricky and I will be scapegoats.” The guy leans over to spit on the ground, leaving a gob of blood and saliva next to my feet. “She’s got it. She has to have it hidden somewhere.”

“If she does, I’ll find it and return it to Bentley. But you need to leave. She’d probably make you from your voice alone.”

“That’s why I’m here. I don’t wanna leave any loose ends. You’ve obviously got an in with her. She trusts you. Maybe you and me could tag-team to get her to give up the tape and then I’ll—”

One smooth shot against his jaw cuts his words off, and his eyes roll back in his head. Just the idea of him going anywhere near Ivy makes me want to snap his thick neck and solve my loose end. It’s too risky, though. My face is all over the store’s camera feed. I wasn’t prepared for this today.

And where is this other guy—Ricky—in all this? Waiting outside or . . .

Shit. Panic sets in.

I fish the guy’s wallet out of his pocket and then settle him on the toilet, slumped against the wall. Plucking his piece from his coat pocket, I tuck it into the back of my jeans and slide under the bottom of the locked stall. A glance in the mirror shows a small cut and a trail of blood down my jaw. I quickly wash that off, along with my bloody hands, and then charge out of the men’s restroom.

And directly into the women’s.

Ivy’s in front of the mirror, brushing something onto her eyelashes. Perfectly safe.

Her eyebrows spike, but otherwise she shows no outward sign of surprise. Not like the lady who’s standing beside her, mouth gaping like a fish.

I nod to Ivy. “We should go.”

“You missed me that much?”

“Something like that.”

She throws the tube into her purse and stalks toward me, pausing as her dark gaze touches my mouth. “What happened to your lip?”

“Walked into a wall.”

Her eyes narrow, and I know she’s thinking of calling me on that bullshit. But all she says is, “That takes talent.”

I ignore her sarcastic tone and rope an arm around her back, guiding her out of the restroom and toward the cash registers at the front, my eyes scanning every face that we pass.

While she’s checking out, I pull out the wallet I lifted, flipping it open to the picture ID.

Mario Scalero .

I warned Bentley to keep them away, but in a way I’m glad they didn’t listen. At least now I know that Scalero is a threat to Ivy, and I don’t think finding that video is going to change that. Another reason for me to stick close to her.

Ivy tosses a second duffel bag on the front porch, waving a hand dismissively. “I can’t deal with this mess for another second today. Are you almost done?”

I shut the door and test the key. The bolt fastens smoothly.

“Well, look at you.”

I hand her the key. She smiles sheepishly. “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So . . .” She hesitates over her words. “Dakota’s making dinner tonight. I’m heading over there now. If you’re hungry and you have nothing else to do, you’re welcome to come. As a thank-you.” She shrugs dismissively. “But if not, that’s cool, too. No big deal. Just thought I’d offer.”

She’s chewing on her lip. She wants me to come, but I think she’s afraid I’m going to turn her down, and I don’t think her ego can handle being turned down right now. Under that tough exterior, I’m beginning to see extreme sensitivity.

I scoop up her bags and march down the stairs without giving her an answer, scanning the street for any new cars that weren’t there when we arrived. There’s nothing, thankfully. Scalero and the other guy have backed off for the time being; Scalero’s likely preoccupied with the hospital and canceling his credit card, which, in hindsight, I wish I had used to pay for the locks, seeing as he helped bust them. But at least I used one to fill up my gas tank and buy lunch.

“Thanks. I’d love to come.”

She presses her lips together to keep me from seeing how much that pleases her. “Just to warn you, though, she’s a little bit out there.”

“I noticed.” The woman is stunning in a very natural way, but she had no qualms about lifting my shirt to see Ivy’s work thirty seconds after introducing herself to me. I tolerated it for Ivy’s sake. “How much of that weed in her greenhouse does she smoke?”

“So you noticed that, too,” she murmurs with a wry smile. “I think she’s always been a bit ‘spiritual.’ ” She uses her fingers to air-quote that word. “Even before she started smoking. Speaking of weed, how are you with seaweed?”

I chuckle. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“She likes to experiment with strange ingredients. Last time I had dinner at her place, she made this seaweed salad. It wasn’t bad but . . .” She winces, then does a sideways glance of my body. “I doubt it’ll sustain you. Tell you what,” she says as she throws her purse onto the passenger seat. “Follow me to Safeway and I’ll grab some burgers and things, just in case.” She presses the button on her key fob to pop her trunk, but then frowns and slams it shut. “Oh, that’s right. There’s no room with all my other stuff in there.”

Other stuff? This is all I saw her bring from the house. “What stuff?”

“Just that shitty old computer from the shop.” She opens the door to her backseat and backs up so I can toss her duffel bags in. “I packed it up last night after you left. That and my kit . . . I bring it home with me every night, anyway, but thank God I left it in the car, or those assholes would have torn it apart. Oh my God.” She shakes her head. “I would have gone homicidal if they had fucked up my kit. That’s the only thing I own that I actually really care about.”

Her words drift as their meaning begins to sink in.

Her kit.

She brings her kit everywhere with her.

But . . . I frown. No. I saw the inside of it yesterday. There wasn’t any videotape in there. I would have noticed that.

“Hey.”

I look down to find her already sitting in the driver’s seat, seat belt on, engine cranked, staring at me. “Are you going to follow me?”