18. Trips
Chapter 18
Trips
T he car RJ bought is perfect. It’s not so nice someone will notice it parked on the street, and not so junky that they’ll have the police called on them. He found it in a legitimate, old-school classified ad, and Gramps was gleeful to sell the thing for asking price in cash.
RJ tosses two bags of computer crap in the trunk, followed by a box of surveillance equipment. We’re going to have to buy and deck out that surveillance van soon. We’ve needed it for months now. Only, we just don’t have the capital for that on top of setting up more avenues for money laundering.
So cue Jansen lifting cars often enough for a news bulletin to go out warning people in the rich neighborhoods in the north about a crime spree. We’ll have to move west soon. I’m going to have a small-scale, high-rollers game next weekend, too. Then, hopefully, we’ll have enough to do the build-out in cash without wrecking all our other plans .
Everything needs to be done in cash for now. Which sucks royally, as RJ’s been raking it in, but that’s just numbers in some database until we have better ways to launder the funds. Paper trails have gotten more than one criminal caught. And growing up in the Westerhouse family means I know exactly what you can lawyer yourself out of and what sends you straight to federal prison.
Watching the guys load the last of the stuff reminds me of how much I hate sending them alone. RJ will keep Jansen in check, more or less, but we’re always stronger when we’re together. But too many boots on the ground will draw unwanted attention, so I’m stuck here, as much as I fucking hate it.
Clara’s down by the car, tangled hair down her back, her windbreaker on but not zipped, the tails of the thing swinging around her, making her look more like a penguin than a hot-ass chick.
Fuck it. I can’t stop thinking about her damn body, that curve of waist flaring out to the arch of her hips, the way her ass looks like a perfect handful. And her boobs. Fuck. I just keep imagining teasing those gorgeous nipples into aching peaks, then wondering what kinds of whimpers she’d make.
God fucking damn. I either need to get my shit together or go rub one out, because there’s no way I’m going to make it through the rest of the day with her on my brain like she is right now.
She gives RJ a hug, and the fucker sneaks a sniff of her hair before letting her go. Then she turns to Jansen and the jackass kisses her like he’s fucking her. And most annoying of all, RJ looks intrigued, not pissed, and I realize I don’t know as much about my team as I should. Are we okay with sharing now? Because I’m not. No fucking way.
The two of them climb into the car and pull away, Clara waving after them like they’re sailors going to sea, not two criminals on their way to infiltrate serious mob territory.
Shit. Maybe there’s not as much of a difference to that comparison as I thought.
I have both of their phones in my pockets—they took burners for safety, and fully scannable IDs under fake names. We’re not taking any chances.
Once they’re out of sight, Clara turns back to the house, catching me staring at her from the porch like a goddamned scorned lover. She throws her shoulders back when she sees me, her stance combative, and my blood immediately reverses course from my brain to my dick. Because I like her on edge. I want her to fight me. Part of me knows that if she can take me, if she can win, then maybe she belongs. And a growing piece of me, probably bullied by the mini-brain currently hovering at half-mast in my pants, wants her to belong.
I shove that series of revelations deep, locking them in a box of things too dangerous to want, then motion her to come to me. She rolls her eyes, having already been on her way up the walkway, and I smother a laugh.
“You beckoned?” she says, one hand on her hip, and for once this afternoon, I’m glad for her loose coat, its bulk keeping my mind on business.
I hand her one of the phones. “I’m going to need you to keep this with you until they get back. Not all the time, maybe sixty percent of the time. Can you do that? ”
She looks at the phone, then slips it into her coat pocket. “This is Jansen’s. You have RJ’s then? We’re making it look like they’re still here around campus, right?”
I force a smile away. Why is she so fucking clever? “Yup.”
“Should I make calls or anything? Text?”
“I’ll send two or three texts this weekend. Just respond. Jansen doesn’t do much on his phone. He’d rather go find someone than call them.”
“I’ve noticed,” she says, a secret smile curving over her lips. Damn it. Why do I want to lick the damn thing from her face? And why do I feel like knocking out Jansen’s front teeth? Not safe, Trips.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly stuck on the idea of kissing the grin off her face, making that dopey look mine instead of Jansen’s.
Only, I’m a one-night-stand kind of guy. Nobody needs to get knee-deep in my shit. And I sure as hell don’t need to be tangled up in anyone else’s. My body moves faster than my resolve, though, my hand lurching out to cradle her face, her skin silk under my palm. Her dark eyes meet mine, fire lighting them from inside as she waits to see what I’m going to do.
And I don’t fucking know.
My thumb strokes her cheek, already addicted to the velvet of her skin, and I can’t move, can’t talk, can’t think.
An eternity of a second later, Clara steps back, away from the confusing circle of my half-assed embrace. “Are we done here?” she asks .
“For now,” I growl, stomping down the steps, getting myself out of her hypnotic orbit, rushing down the street toward campus.
It’s not until I’m a few blocks away that I realize two things. First off, I’m not wearing my coat, and it’s fucking brisk out here.
And second, that I, Archibald Clarence Westerhouse the Third, just fucking ran away.
If that isn’t trouble, I don’t know what is.