25. 25 – Ryder #2
The guard shrugs. “Dunno. But someone reckons the bosses were paid off not to say anythin’.”
Nodding, I slip a crisp, hundred-dollar bill into his hand under the guise of a handshake. His huge hand clamps over it greedily. “Fair enough. Guess I’ll give my club a try instead.”
Dropping Maverick a message to let him know, I decide to make good on my words and head to our club in the city. We don’t spend a huge amount of time there thanks to the overabundance of wealthy assholes, but we’ve picked up our fair share of jobs thanks to a little networking.
I ignore the nudge to go back home, to curl up next to Zella and watch her face as she sees her first ever movie in full fucking high-definition in our very own custom theatre. Those assholes better have picked a good one.
But my place is here, among the lowlifes and reprobates that make up the worst of city society.
As I enter the club and push my hair back, I glance around.
One hand up to the barman gets me a whiskey to curl my hand around as I wander, picking up the snippets of gossip that only tell me who’s fucking who and not much else.
A hand on my elbow stops me. “Croft.”
Fucking fabulous. My already sour mood takes a further nosedive. “Can I help you?”
The portly man in the insanely expensive suit smiles around the lit edges of the cigar. “Reckon you already are. John Martinez.”
Nodding slowly, I give him a once-over. So this is the man who started it all, who contacted Maverick to look into Ethan Moore and kick started this whole fucking chain of events. “Pleasure. How can I help?”
Martinez leans in. Man’s got a face like a rat, all beady dark eyes and narrow chin with a few whiskers hanging off. Not exactly an oil painting.
On second thoughts, I take it back. That’s a fucking insult to rats.
Even his voice is oily. “I’ve been waiting patiently for an update on our arrangement. I’m afraid that Maverick hasn’t been especially forthcoming.”
Bored, I flick at the end of my sleeves. “Well, these things do take time. I’m actually doing some research tonight.”
“Interesting,” Martinez almost purrs. “And I’m glad to hear it, given that the man of the hour is right over there.”
I force myself to turn slowly.
“He doesn’t look quite himself,” Martinez muses.
He sounds delighted, and it’s true. Moore looks…
untidy, to say the least. Maybe even a little dirty.
Hunched over the end of the bar, he’s a far cry from the pristine man I saw at Club X.
Gloves are still on, though, I note with disgust. Even his hair looks like it could do with a wash.
“No,” I murmur. “He doesn’t, does he? If you’ll excuse me, Martinez, I have work to do. I’ll ensure Maverick updates you tomorrow.”
I don’t hear what he says as I move closer, before sliding into an empty stool two along from where Moore sits, staring into his glass. His head turns slowly, taking me in with bleary eyes, but I ignore him as I pull the leather evening menu towards me.
“You,” he slurs. “I know you.”
I grace him with a disapproving flicker over his appearance, and my lip curls. “The pleasure isn’t mutual, I’m afraid.”
The lie rolls off my tongue like honey, and his face darkens. Stumbling off the stool, he makes his way towards me. The bartender glances over with a frown, and I unobtrusively hold up a hand, warning him off.
Ethan Moore slides into the stool next to me, nearly falling off the other side. Wrinkling my nose, I take a sip of my own drink. I can smell how many he’s had already, the fumes wafting off him in waves.
When he’s finally settled, he turns back to me. “You’re from that company. The one that finds things.”
This close, I can see the little pock marks in his skin, the way he’s styled his hair to try and cover the increasing baldness, the sheen of sweat on his brow.
The idea of Zella anywhere near this man makes me want to do things that would make Enzo look like a choir boy.
When I don’t respond, he pokes my arm with his gloves. “’M talkin’ to you.”
Slowly, I slide my arm away, glancing over. “I wasn’t aware you had asked a question.”
I take a little enjoyment in the way his face reddens, but it rapidly drains away at the reminder that this is what Zella saw when he wrapped that fucking chain around her ankle.
“I need help,” he slurs. “I’ve lost something.”
My whole body tightens, and I force it to relax. “Oh?”
I pitch my tone at just the right mix of inviting and disinterested, and he falls for it. Hook, line, fucking sinker.
Spinning and nearly toppling off, he rights himself before he looks around. I try to hold my breath when he leans in.
“I’ve lost something, and I need it back,” he mutters feverishly. “I can’t… I can’t work without it.”
I can’t look at him. Instead, I lift my glass and take a healthy sip. “I can’t help if I don’t know what it is.”
I want to see how he’ll describe her, if he’ll just front right up and announce that he’s been keeping a girl prisoner in a city warehouse for more than two fucking decades.
But he hasn’t held her for that long by blabbing to every man on a barstool.
He shakes his head. “I’d need a contract first. Non-disclosure. ”
Weighing up the possible advantages of signing some meaningless piece of paper to get more information out of him, I decide against it. Even the thought of pretending to work with him makes me feel sick to my stomach.
Getting up, I offer him an easy smile. “Sorry, man. We’re fully booked at the moment. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know through the club. What’s your name?”
He narrows his eyes somewhere in my general vicinity. “Ethan Moore.”
“Great.” Draining my glass, I push it back over to the bartender and sign the slip he holds out to bill our tab. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
I can feel eyes on me as I walk out – Moore or Martinez – but I don’t stop, starting the bike up and pulling out of the lot. The tension in my body doesn’t relax until I catch sight of our gates.
Instead of heading to the home theater, I go straight upstairs and get in the shower. It feels like a thin layer of oil is covering my skin after the interactions I’ve had this evening.
By the time I’m finished and head back down in a pair of gray sweatpants, it’s late. I’m not expecting anyone to be up, so I jolt when I walk into Maverick in the hall.
“Everything okay?” he asks quietly, and I nod.
“Everyone else in bed?”
He tips his head towards the kitchen door.
“She wanted to wait for you,” he says in a low voice. “Was worried about you being out so late.”
I stare in the direction of the kitchen. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home. Make sure she gets to bed.”
With a final look over his shoulder, he heads upstairs. Staying where I am, I stare uselessly at the kitchen door.
She waited up for me.
When I push the door open, Zella is cradling a coffee in her hands as she stares out of the double windows into the dark night. She glances absent-mindedly over her shoulder, a soft smile on her lips, but it grows when she spots me.
“You’re back,” she says quietly. “I… I wanted to make sure before I went to bed.”
Swallowing, I force a nod. Her eyes slide down, taking in my bare chest with a flicker of heat in her eyes.
Fighting back the irrational urge to cross my arms over my chest like I’m shy – because come on, I’m a fucking whore – I cross the room and pour my own cup of coffee, moving up beside her with a gap between us.
Zella stands quietly, but I can feel her eyes on me as I move around the room.
When I settle next to her, she blows out a breath, but stays silent, her eyes on the darkness outside. Guilt twists in my stomach. I promised I’d take her back outside today, and I didn’t.
Truthfully, I don’t think I can be this close to her and not touch her. My body is fucking vibrating from the effort.
“Ryder?”
I choke back the thoughts clouding my head. “Yes, princess?”
“Why don’t you… why don’t you want me here?” She turns to me, those fucking green eyes pools of sadness that I can’t even look at. Her words finally register, and I frown.
“Why would you think that?”
She shifts in place, her eyes dropping to her drink. “You said… earlier. In the dungeon. You said you didn’t want me. I thought – well. It doesn’t matter now.”
Fuck. Fuck. I knew she was upset – Maverick told me to pull my head out of my ass, but I thought he was being dramatic.
“Listen to me,” I say firmly, turning to her. Her hair trails behind her as she peeks up, her expression crestfallen. My hand physically aches with the urge to reach out, to push the loose strands away, all the better to see her face. “Zella… I do not want you to leave.”
Her expression stutters. “I don’t… I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
I keep forgetting that this is all fucking new to her. Groaning, I press my hands into my eyes. I’m fucking this up. I know I am.
“Look,” I say finally. She waits patiently. “You’re welcome here, Zella. I mean it. Our home feels brighter for you being part of it, and I don’t want you to leave.”
She half smiles. “But…,”
“But,” I emphasize quietly. “I can’t give you what Enzo… and maybe Maverick can. Not like that.”
“Because you don’t want me,” she emphasizes, and I throw my hands up.
“I do want you,” I blurt out. “I just… I can’t , Zella.”
“You want me,” she whispers. She sucks in a breath, and fuck if her face doesn’t look hopeful. “Then why—,”
“I am not good enough for you,” I say, and my voice is harsher this time. “You need to understand, Zella. Whatever you have with Enzo and Maverick – I cannot be part of that. Do you understand?”
Her face falls. “Why would you say you’re not good enough?”
Jesus. I’m no good at this emotional shit. I turn away from her, not wanting to look at those damn doe eyes for another second. Then I spin back.