Callous Desire (New York Underworld #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Tatiana

Unease creeps up on me as I peer through the window at the red truck parked on the opposite side of the street.

The shiny bodywork and flashy wheel caps stand out in a neighborhood where people don’t polish their cars.

It’s almost as if the owner wants to attract attention, which would be a good sign for me.

If someone were on my tail, that person would’ve tried to blend in with the less fancy and not-so-expensive vehicles lining the curbs and driveways.

Still, I can’t help but steal a worried glance at Noah, who’s making fighter jet noises while flying a paper plane through the lounge.

Abandoning my task of packing chipped porcelain figurines into a box, I call to the back of the house.

“Jazz?”

I’m grateful for the sheer curtains that allow me to see outside but prevent others from seeing in.

I hate that I’m like this, spooked by a vehicle simply because it seems out of place and the driver has shown up around the same time for the past two days.

For all I know, the neighbor is having an affair, and the truck belongs to her lover.

But being suspicious has become a part of my nature.

My best friend walks through the doorway that connects to the corridor, bogged down by the weight of the box in her arms. “Please tell me it’s knock off time.

” She drops the box on top of the other ten or so stacked in the middle of the floor and dusts her hands on her jeans.

“I’ve had my quota of sorting through messy papers for one day.

” She twists a mass of cherry-brown curls into a bun on her head and secures it with a scrunchy that she pulls off her wrist. “Has your client never heard of filing or shredding? Some invoices date back twenty years. Don’t get me started on all those moth-eaten magazines from before I was born.

Who keeps magazines for fifty years? At least the study is done.

I’ll need a whole lot of caffeine before we tackle the basement, and I’m talking the good Colombian stuff and not that cheap replacement you call coffee. ”

Noah runs a circle around my legs. “Whooossshhhh!”

He doesn’t seem to pay us attention, but I’ve learned that kids’ brains are like little computers that can store everything that comes out of your mouth, even when they’re watching Looney Tunes with a bad, tinny sound blasting from an old, fat-belly television, so I’m careful to lower my voice.

“Have you seen the red truck parked out front?”

“Yeah.” She blows a stray curl from her forehead. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve already checked it out. Those snazzy wheels belong to a guy doing a handyman job for the neighbors.”

Alarm quickens my breathing. “Did you speak to the neighbor?”

She grimaces. “Not exactly.”

Hold on. I hope she didn’t do what I think she did.

My heart speeds up. “You spoke to him?”

“I just said hi when I took out the trash.”

I press a palm on my forehead. No. No way. “You asked what he was doing here?”

She props her hands on her hips. “I may have squeezed that question in between, ‘Hello. Nice ride,’ and—”

“Jazz!” I exclaim under my breath. “You’re not supposed to talk to anyone. Please tell me you didn’t give him your name.”

Noah clambers onto a box, flying his plane higher. I step closer, ready to catch him if he loses his balance.

“What do you take me for?” She wipes her face with the back of her hand, smearing dirt over her cheek. “I didn’t give him my real name.” She snickers. “How does Delilah sound? I’ve always thought it has a sexy ring to it.”

“Can you please be serious for a minute? You know what’s on the line.”

Whatever she sees on my face sobers her. “Chill, will you? It’s been over five years. If he was going to find you, it would’ve happened a long time ago.”

Maybe she’s right. I want to believe that—desperately—but I can never be sure.

“Don’t worry.” She pulls her phone from her back pocket, wakes up the screen, and wiggles a website with a flashy header for home repairs in my face. “The driver of that truck is legit. The handyman service is his own business. He charges a steep call-out fee, but he’s got great reviews.”

Fine, so maybe that explains why his truck has been parked across the street for the past two afternoons. My obsessively anxious self still doesn’t like it.

Jazz waggles her eyebrows as she puts her phone away.

“The guy is a dish, and he’s not wearing a ring.

” She takes a sharpie from the front pocket of her lumberjack shirt and scribbles bank statements on the box she’s added to the pile.

“Maybe you should ask him out on a date.” Grinning, she waves her sharpie like a magic wand at me before pulling the next box closer.

“You, my friend, need to have some fun, and guys looking like that don’t come around often. ”

The idea is so laughable I don’t bother to reply. The list of reasons why dating is a very bad idea is a mile long. If every factor why I shouldn’t see someone were a clause on a contract, the fine-print would contain more asterisks than snowflakes in a blizzard.

For starters, I don’t have time for dating.

Even if I had, I have a big fat target painted on my back and a juicy price on my head.

The last time I heard, it was a nice round million.

Men tell me I’m pretty, but I’m not that pretty, at least not the kind they’d choose over a million dollars in unmarked bills.

Then there are the logistics. You can’t date someone with the hope of building a relationship if you don’t hang around in one place for more than a few months.

Noah and I have been on the run constantly.

I’ve only recently made a new life for us here, testing the waters in the quieter neighborhoods of Denver.

I’m finally daring to dream that it’s possible to disappear in a big city far away from New York and just breathe for a while.

God knows, Noah needs the stability. He’ll be turning five in December.

Next year, he has to go to school. He’s just a little boy who needs friends, a dog, and new shoes.

I look at my sweet baby who’s invented a game to play indoors because he’s not allowed to kick his ball outside. Noah doesn’t complain. He’s such a good kid. He’s still young enough to accept my rules without questioning them.

That’s not going to last forever. Like all growing children, he’ll want freedom and answers, and when I can’t give him either, he’ll challenge me.

My brother, Leander, made our lives hell during his teenager years.

For some reason, he blamed all his issues on my mom.

She never had it easy with him. Yet she always said he’d been the sweetest baby.

Watching Noah like this, my insides turn all mushy.

And then guilt sets in to taint that bottomless love and infinite affection with the acrid taste of failure.

Because it’s my fault that he has to live like this, always running and hiding.

Because of my mistake, I can’t give him the life he deserves. What kind of mother does that make me?

Jazz finishes labeling the last box. “At least think about it. I’ll watch Noah. It’s no biggie. It’s about time you break your five year-long dry spell.”

Frowning, I mouth, “Not in front of Noah.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “But wouldn’t that be nice?”

The kind of nice she means has no place in my life.

Did I mention guys my age don’t want to date girls with my baggage?

At twenty-four, they’re more likely to sign up for drinks at the club and a good time getting naked than playing hide and seek with a four year-old or sailing paper boats in the tub.

I doubt they’d get excited about wieners with spaghetti hair for dinner.

The truth is I don’t mind. I love spending every minute I can with Noah.

I wouldn’t be able to relax if I’m too far away from him.

I never know when my past is going to catch up with me.

The last thing I want is for that to happen when I’m making out with some guy I’m not really interested in while my baby’s safety is on the line.

No, thanks.

I say that out loud, which invites a drawn-out, painful sigh from Jazz. She’s moved on to folding up tablecloths that don’t fit on any table in the house or garden.

Ignoring the looks she keeps on sending me, I wrap the last of the porcelain animal collection in paper before sealing the box. The owner gave me permission to get rid of anything that’s broken, cracked, or chipped, which will definitely help to declutter her home.

The wall into which her flock of ducks has been nailed seems a lot less crammed now that the birds have been relieved of their fifty year-long flight.

Their places left marks on the faded wallpaper.

The nails were hammered in carelessly, mimicking the haphazard flight formation of a never-ending trek to a warmer climate.

I’m sad for those ducks that never went anywhere.

Those nails will take the plaster with them when the owner pulls them out.

She’ll have to strip the wallpaper and fill the holes with spackle. A fresh coat of paint will do wonders.

Noah scrambles over the obstacles he’s built with the sofa cushions and lands his plane on the armrest of a chair.

He’s a real ball of energy. He should be outside, climbing trees and learning to ride a bike.

He should also have clothes that didn’t come from the thrift store and sneakers that don’t have holes.

That’s what kills me time and again, those little holes his big toes have worn through his sneakers because he only has one pair he wears every day.

Children need good shoes for proper back support.

My mom drilled that into me. And here I am, my heart cracking open and bleeding empty in my chest, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to make it better.