Chapter 18
Their cab dropped them off two blocks away from Cheyenne’s studio. Cole paid him in cash, and as the car drove off into the early morning darkness, Cole sent a text to their insurance policy.
Are you where you need to be?
Desiree
JFC, I’m getting there. I can’t teleport, you know.
Jansen
Fuck you, Cole.
Vanessa
You owe us so big after this, Dalton. (middle finger emoji)
Cole snorted. No, they hadn’t been thrilled about helping—especially Jansen and Vanessa—but they were the best motley crew he’d been able to throw together on a literal moment’s notice.
“Think they’ll show?” Will asked.
“Hopefully.” Cole pocketed his phone. “Hopefully we won’t need them.”
Will grimaced, skepticism written all over the shadows in his face. “Let’s hope.”
Cole studied him. “You still want to go through with it?”
“Of course.” Will fidgeted. “But if Cheyenne’s turned on us and has people ransacking our room—I mean, I’ve just got a bad gut feeling about it. Like if we don’t run for the hills this time, it’s going to bite us in the ass.”
“Like we’re going to get killed.”
“Or something almost equally unpleasant, yes.”
Cole didn’t like that Will had the same bad feeling he did. They should probably listen to it and get the fuck out of New York, but then what? Just run again when someone else caught up with them? It was time to end this thing, for fuck’s sake.
“Well, let’s get in there and get this done.” He started walking toward an alley. “The longer we wait, the more time Cheyenne has to get backup.”
“And the more time our backup has to arrive,” Will muttered.
There was that.
They followed the alley, then came around the rear of Cheyenne’s building.
He didn’t like that there were lights on in her studio floor.
It was possible she was burning the midnight oil to earn her half a million dollars.
Given the men who’d been ransacking his and Will’s hotel room half an hour ago, though, Cole was dubious.
With about a hundred feet between them and the building’s rear entrance, Cole halted Will with a hand on his chest. To his credit, Will didn’t object and didn’t question him.
He didn’t even make any snarky comments, which was nice, but it also unnerving.
When Will understood that it wasn’t the time or place to be a smart mouth, that meant things had truly gone to shit.
They both stayed still and silent, and Cole held his breath as he listened. New York City was never quiet, not even this time of night, but certain sounds could break free from the usual noise. A vehicle peeling out. A person running. Gunfire.
Tonight, nothing stood out, which unsettled Cole more than he already was. He didn’t necessarily want a car to peel out or a gun to fire, but that would be better than this relatively silent unknown.
He met Will’s alert, concerned eyes and nodded toward the building. Without a word, they were moving again.
The loading dock was open and there was a car parked by one of the bays. A single light was on, but no one was around.
“Do you know if that’s Cheyenne’s car?” Will whispered.
Cole shook his head. “No idea.”
They both hesitated. The wide open loading dock could’ve easily been a trap just like every other goddamned thing since Alders’s party.
On the other hand, the longer they stood out here discussing it, the more chance there was for someone to show up and throw more monkey wrenches into things, so… fuck it. They’d take their chances.
Well, they wouldn’t take too many chances—they each drew their pistols, keeping them down but ready. And maybe later Cole could think about how unreasonably sexy Will looked when he stepped into badass mode.
He shook himself and focused ahead. There was an elevator up to the studio floor, but they went for the stairwell instead.
Fewer opportunities to get literally boxed in.
Cole took point, and halfway up the stairs, it occurred to him that he wasn’t sure which was weirder—trusting an armed Will Yarmouth to have his back, or knowing that subtle ache whenever he took a step was Will’s fault.
He actually had to bite back a laugh at that; their immediate situation may have been serious, but this entire debacle was comedy gold.
He’d have to tell the story at Christmas dinner. Mother would be horrified.
Just before they reached the top of the stairs, something tickled the edges of Cole’s senses. Something so familiar that when he recognized it, he was annoyed with himself for not putting his finger on it immediately.
As unpleasant memories—and some painfully pleasant ones—flooded his brain, ice prickled the length of his spine. He halted and murmured to Will, “Marcus is here.”
“He is?” Will quirked his lips. “What, can you smell him or something?”
“Actually, yeah. Take a whiff.”
Will eyed him dubiously, but then he sniffed the air, and Cole could see the instant he caught that scent. He’d probably have noticed it himself before too much longer; all the wood, plastic, solvents, and other smells in this building couldn’t quite erase that sharp note of overpriced cologne.
“Jesus.” Will made a face. “Didn’t anyone ever tell him you’re supposed to spritz it on, not marinate in it?”
Cole huffed a near silent laugh. “Do you think he’d listen?”
“Hmm, yeah, fair point.”
Cole opened his mouth to speak, but right then, something in the studio crashed.
And he was pretty sure that scream came from Cheyenne.
They exchanged looks, then jogged the rest of the way up the stairs.
“I’m done with your excuses!” an all too familiar voice boomed. “You lied to us, and—”
“I didn’t lie!” That was definitely Cheyenne, and she was terrified. “I swear, I gave you exactly what they gave me. They told me they were staying at that hotel. I don’t know what more you—no, don’t knock that—!”
Something else crashed, and what sounded like ceramic or porcelain shattered on the hard floor.
Had Cole and Will been SWAT team members or action movie stars—basically, anyone with any kind of, like, training in this sort of thing—they’d have hung back. They’d have assessed the situation, made a plan, and strategized like intelligent human beings with functioning survival instincts.
That crossed Cole’s mind about thirty seconds after it should have, and about two seconds after it was too late to course correct.
Because Cole and Will—being art thieves and not Navy SEALs, not to mention both arguably qualifying as dumbasses—went crashing into the room like the damn Kool-Aid man.
They succeeded in startling Marcus before he could knock over yet another shelf of pottery, so there was that. And Cheyenne was able to seize the opportunity to put some space between her and the red-faced psycho.
Unfortunately, both of those things happened in the same moment Unnamed Goon #1 and Unnamed Goon #2 clocked the two interlopers.
Goon #1, the bigger of the two by a mile, grabbed Will and hurled him like a ragdoll into a workbench, sending Will, the bench, and all its tools and jars crashing over behind some more shelves.
Goon #2 had Cole by the throat and slammed him up against the wall, stunning him for a second.
“Will!” Cole wheezed, trying to free himself, breathe, and get a bead on Will, who hadn’t made a sound. “Will, are you—”
A swift backhand across his face stunned him again.
“Shut up,” Goon #2 growled. He hauled Cole away from the wall, dragging him by his arm and his throat. Cole stumbled, nearly dropping to one knee, but the asshole kept him up.
Goon #1 appeared and relieved Cole of his pistol. Cole struggled and shouted, but both guys were easily twice his size. It was practically four-on-one, and Cole wasn’t even that great in one-on-one.
In between kicking and punching, he looked around for anything that could help. A weapon. Something he could use for leverage. The man who’d come in with him.
Then he saw him—Will. Or at least, Will’s feet. He was on the floor, broken glass and wood all around him. And he wasn’t moving.
Oh fuck. No. Cole had to get loose. He had to get to Will and—
Something cold and hard pressed into his stomach, and he froze. Goon #2 glared at him. When Cole flicked his gaze downward, he wasn’t surprised to see the man jabbing a gun into his midsection.
“Okay. Okay.” Cole relaxed as much as he could while being restrained by the two assholes.
“You win. I give.” He wasn’t at all interested in finding out if it was true that abdominal gunshot wounds were among the worst ways to die, right up there with rabies or listening to Mother talk about cubism.
He wouldn’t do Will, Cheyenne, or anyone else any good if he was dying on the floor.
The goons relaxed their holds on him a little—enough that they weren’t cutting off any circulation, but not enough to stop hurting.
“What the fuck?” Marcus’s voice echoed off the high rafters.
When Cole looked at him, Marcus’s features contorted with fury, shock, and an extra layer of fury for good measure.
Cole had seen variations of that expression before.
Usually when he’d had the audacity to stand up to Marcus instead of being his reliable doormat.
Jesus. How was I ever attracted to you?
Well, okay, that was an easy enough question.
Marcus was a tall, blond Swede with piercing blue eyes and a charming smile.
He could be reserved and even shy at first, but he was gregarious and fun once someone got past that first layer.
He was magnetic. There weren’t many people who wouldn’t be attracted to Marcus.
The real question?
How was I ever in love with you?
Ugh. Gross.