Chapter Eleven
OH, MY HEAD.
Fuck.
I squint into the swirl of my bedroom, the morning light slicing in way too bright and way too...morning-y.
Blinking, I push myself to seated against the giant pillows and rub my forehead. The clock across the room reads 10:45 a.m., and I groan.
Images of last night come back to me in fits and starts. Back from clothes shopping, Will and Tuck on the back porch having drinks, dinner, wine, wine, and more wine...
I once made out with two guys in the same night.
I’m a bad, bad girl.
“Oh, Christ,” I mutter, and flop face-down into my pillow. I can’t believe I actually said that. I can’t believe I thought that was cute. What the fuck is my problem? I literally do not know these guys that well. But two glasses of fancy French red whatever-the-fuck and it’s cheap date city for Maren, I guess.
That’s the other thing. I may not actually be mentally incompetent, or however Uncle John is trying to spin it, but I’m definitely supposed to take it easy on the alcohol. Dr. Shanahan wouldn’t be pleased to know that I’d been pounding wine like a sorority girl. He’d probably give me some lecture about my synapses and electrical impulses and...whatever.
I don’t know how long I’ve had my face smashed into the feathery softness of the pillow when I hear a knock at my door.
“Maren?”
I can’t tell whose voice it is. Only that it’s not LJ’s, I don’t think.
“I have coffee,” the voice adds.
Not LJ and bearing caffeine. That’s good enough for me, I guess.
“Come in,” I say. I don’t even bother to get out of bed as the door swings open. It’s Will, dressed crisply as ever, bearing an entire French press of beautiful deep brown salvation in one hand, a mug hooked around his finger. Under his other arm are a bunch of brown paper packages.
“Good morning there, greasemonkey.” He flashes a grin, setting down the packages first. “Looking at little rough, eh?”
I realize too late that my hair’s a mess and I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. I fold my arms in a futile gesture of defense. “No thanks to you and your...” I wave my hand in the air.
“Cotes du Rhone.” Will sets the coffeepot and mug on the table near my reading nook—the reading nook, I correct myself. I don’t live here.
It’s only temporary.
“And yes, I...apologize for that,” Will goes on. “Hence me bringing you a peace offering.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Was that even your idea?”
Will sighs. “Okay, no. Tuck made the coffee and Rob insisted I bring it.” He glances at the French press, then at his watch. “It’s got another two minutes.” He stares at me. “How are you feeling?”
“Been better,” I say drily. “I’m not supposed to drink a lot, in case that wasn’t obvious.”
Will quirks an eyebrow. “Not supposed to?”
Shit. Revealing my epilepsy would be a bad move here. The last thing I need is to reveal a weakness these guys can exploit. Not that they necessarily would, but...well, I’ve already seen once what happens when you trust people blindly.
Not again.
“Just a personal rule,” I croak. “You know, knowing my own limits, or whatever.” Time for a subject change. I nod at the packages. “What are those?”
“Oh, yes. Your wardrobe is here—or part of it, anyway.” Will drums his fingers on the top box. “Rob said to tell you that Jack hopes you like it, and there’s more where this came from. Just some things to get you started.”
That actually makes me perk up a little. I’ve now been wearing these sweats for far longer than is sanitary, and the thought of putting anything else on my body—especially something nice—is admittedly tempting.
Will smiles. “Look at you, all excited over clothes.”
I frown. “You would be too, if you hadn’t changed in days.”
“I would be even if I had,” Will says. “I appreciate a good wardrobe, as I hope is evident.” He glances at his watch. “Coffee time.” He turns to the French press and slowly pushes the plunger down, releasing a delicious aroma throughout the room. The smell alone is enough to spring me out of bed.
“Gimme,” I say, making a clawing gesture at the mug.
“Easy,” Will says, waving me off. “Let me pour it first.” He does, and hands me the mug. “Cheers.”
I take a sip, and it’s absolutely heavenly. A far cry from the piss-poor lukewarm cups Uncle John’s favorite Keurig would make. I close my eyes and take another long pull.
“So you like it, then?” Will smirks. “I’ll let Tuck know.”
Embarrassed, I open my eyes and tuck my hair behind my ear. Now that I’m more awake, and out of bed, the full awkwardness of this moment hits me square in the chest.
Will, for his part, doesn’t seem flustered. But I doubt he ever gets flustered.
“Thank you,” I say. “For bringing the coffee. And bringing up my clothes.”
“Any time,” Will says. “Like I said, I’m doing penance. I shouldn’t have presumed you...wanted to drink that much.”
“You didn’t pressure me,” I say quickly. “I did it on my own. But...” I wince, thinking back to what I said.
I’m a bad, bad girl.
Dear Lord. Kill me now.
“Yeah. It was too much,” I mumble into my coffee. “Maybe we can forget it ever happened?”
“I’ll do my best.” Will presses his lips together, and looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m probably keeping you from...something.” I have no idea what these guys do during the day, but presumably they don’t just hang around in spare bedrooms.
“Don’t worry about it.” Will folds his arms and leans against the wall. “Actually, Rob asked if I’d show you to the garage once you’re ready. I think he’s eager for you to get started on the cars.”
Thatperks me up even more than the coffee. My heart skips a few beats with excitement. “I’m ready. Show me.”
Will eyes me up and down. “You are?”
I follow his gaze to my outfit and bare feet. “Okay, fair point. Gimme five minutes.” I set down the coffee and step over to the packages, cracking open the one on the top. Inside is a flurry of purple tissue paper, with a handwritten note on top:
Enjoy, Ms. Bacall. xoxo, Jack.
I smile and carefully set the note to the side before digging into the paper to discover what’s within.
To my surprise, it’s none of the country club bullshit I would have expected. It’s like what I’d tried on in the store, but more: finely-woven linen tank tops, trouser-cut jeans with the perfect amount of distressing, vintage band T-shirts, warm flannel button-downs. It’s a whole wardrobe of just Maren.
And I love it.
After digging some more, I toss out a heather gray T-shirt and loose black jeans onto the bed. The second package yields a variety of shoes and socks, from which I select a pair of canvas sneakers—basic, but obviously high quality—and then move on to the final package, which is all underwear.
And not just your six-pack-of-Hanes stuff. This is...lingerie. No doubt about it. But it’s not froofy and ridiculous. It’s...understated. Sexy, but not costumey. There are hints of lace here and there, but mostly simple cuts and styles, with various dark sheens of silky material.
Too late, I glance up at Will, who averts his eyes. But not quickly enough.
“Looks like Jack picked you out some very nice things,” he says, his voice husky. He studiously avoids my gaze as I hurriedly select a bra and matching underwear.
“Yep,” I agree. “Be right back.”
Face burning, I grab the clothes and dash into the bathroom. I strip out of the sweats in five seconds flat, and intend to get dressed just as quickly, but slow when I get to the underwear. They’re both made of matching plum-colored silk, and they feel cool as spring water sliding over my skin. The panties are smooth and soft against my skin—definitely more comfortable than what I’m used to—and the bra is surprisingly comfortable for how...decorative it is. Two sets of straps crisscross above my breasts, the dark purple fabric deep and rich against the paleness of my skin. Absently, I trace a finger along the edge of the cup, and find myself suddenly and acutely aware that Will is just feet away in my bedroom.
What would he think of this, I wonder?
I chew my lip and force myself to snap out of it. I already put myself on thin ice after last night; I’m not going to make it worse by fantasizing.
In another five seconds I yank the tee over my head and pull on my jeans. After a quick tooth brush and splash of water on my face, I reemerge.
“Now I’m ready,” I announce. Will straightens up and clears his throat.
“You...look very nice,” he says. But something about the strain in his voice tells me that maybe nice is a toned-down version of his first-choice adjective.
Still, I hold my head high and accept the compliment. “Not so much a greasemonkey now, huh?”
He smiles. “Oh, I have no doubt you’ll be covered in grease by the end of the day once you get your hands on those cars.” He holds out my coffee mug, and I step towards him to grab it, but then he pauses.
“Hang on,” he says. “You’ve got a...” He spins his finger in a circle, gesturing for me to turn. “Tag. On your shirt.”
“Oh.” I oblige and turn around, trying to reach for it and failing. “Is it—”
“I can get it,” he says. “Hold still.”
I swallow, but obey. “Sure. Thanks.” I turn my back to him and sweep my hair out of the way. His fingertips graze the back of my neck as he untucks the thin thread that attaches the small piece of cardboard to the T-shirt collar. In spite of myself, I suck in a breath.
Because wine or no wine, I’m imagining that hand wrapping around my throat.
Get it together, Maren, I command myself, slamming my eyes shut. I stand, frozen, as he snaps the tag off and releases me, his touch evaporating from my skin.
“All set,” he says. I turn around, hoping to God my face isn’t as red as it feels, and smile.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Will grins. “You ready to play with some big boy toys?”
“OH MY GOD,” I SAY.“Oh my god. Oh my god.”
I sound like an absolute airhead, but I don’t care. The fleet of cars in front of me is completely OMG-worthy, and I don’t care what it makes me sound like to admire it. These cars deserve it.
“They are pretty sweet,” Will admits. “Just a shame no one takes care of them properly.”
Rob strides in the side door of the garage, shaking his head. “Some of us are busy working, Will,” he says. “Don’t have a lot of time to get under the hood of things.”
“Then why do you hoard them like a total pack rat?” Will fires back.
“Because they deserve to be owned by someone who appreciates them, not some rich asshole who keeps them locked up in a garage and never dares put a mile on them.”
“What, like you?” I blurt out, then put a hand on my mouth. “Oops. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s all right,” Rob says, laughing. “I guess I can see how you would get that impression.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “But no, these aren’t going to be mine forever. I have plans for them. I really only need one car at a time, after all. And Will’s not wrong. I probably bit off more than I can chew in terms of rehabbing them. Definitely more of a side project. But if it’s something you’re willing to take on, Maren...”
Willing?I think. Shit, I’d pay to work on these. Outwardly, I try to keep it cool. “Absolutely,” I say. “Do you care where I start?”
“I defer to you.” Rob says, doing a palms-up gesture. He steps back and sizes me up and down. “I see Jack’s wardrobe arrived.”
I smile. “Yes, it did. I really—I can’t thank you enough for that.”
Rob waves me off. “Don’t mention it. You literally came here with the clothes on your back.”
I try one last time. “I’ll repay you. I insist.”
“Maren, enough,” Rob says, his voice firm. “The clothes are a gift, and that’s final. We’ve been through this.”
“Careful,” Will says. “Keep refusing, and he’ll end up gifting you a car.”
I blush. “Well, I don’t want one. The Mustang is the only girl for me. I’m monogamous that way.”
Will raises an eyebrow and looks at Rob.
“Don’t even,” Rob grits out in a low voice that only Will is supposed to hear.
I pace up and down the row of cars, pretending I didn’t hear it. I feel like a kid in the proverbial candy shop. Delicately, I skate my fingertip over the hood of the Camaro. “I guess I can get started just by doing a little diagnostic work,” I say. “Figure out what’s wrong with them. Make a punch list of things to take care of.”
“Like I said, it’s all on you, Maren.” Rob flashes a grin. “I love to see you happy.”
Even as he says it, a twisting icy feeling squirms in my stomach. Because obviously, these cars came from whatever enterprise he’s doing...outside the law. And even if he has noble ambitions for them, giving them away or whatever—which I find incredibly suspect, but okay—I’m still sort of complicit in it by fixing them up, and that makes me feel weird.
“Don’t think this means I endorse whatever the hell it is you do, though,” I put in. “I’m doing it for the love of the cars.”
“As you wish,” Rob says. “Oh, and by the way...” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a brand new smartphone. “For you.”
“What?” I instantly refuse. “No way. I won’t. I can’t.”
“You will and you can,” he says simply. “You deserve something that can actually be useful. Besides, a decent phone will make it easier to keep in touch with you if you get to the edges of the property.”
“That’s exactly it,” I retort. “There’s probably some kind of tracking device in there, so you can find me all the time.”
Will sucks his teeth, looking at Rob, who shrugs.
“And if there is?” he says. “You probably want us to know where you are if you’re in trouble, Maren. The quicker, the better.”
A shiver runs down my spine. He’s not wrong. Still, I can’t help but feel like the kids in Hansel and Gretel being fattened up by the witch. There’s got to be some ulterior motive to him keeping me safe, no matter what he says.
People don’t just take care of others like that, no more than they rescue cars to give them to deserving owners.
Life just doesn’t work that way.
I set my jaw, stare at the phone, and take it out of his hand.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll keep it, but if you’ve wiretapped this thing to...I don’t know, spy on me in the bathroom or something...”
Will bursts out laughing, and Rob shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even know how to do that. I’m an outdoorsman, not a computer nerd.”
I blow out a breath. That much I believe.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Will says. “I’ve got things to attend to.”
“Same here,” Rob says. “Anything else you need, Maren?”
I rake my fingers through my hair, thinking.
“A hair tie?” I ask.
They both laugh. Rob whips out his phone.
“I’ll order some for you. Do you want scrunchies or just elastics?”
“I... I wasn’t being serious,” I say.
“Too late. Both kinds on their way, delivery by 8 pm,” Rob says, flashing a grin. “Seriously, anything else? If you get hungry, wander into the house. Tuck’ll whip you something up, or else you can raid the fridge.”
“Great,” I say, scanning around the garage. Everything I need is here, and I’m sure I can find my way around just fine. I certainly did the last time I was in here, and that reminds me...
“Is LJ around here? I’m not going to be disturbing him in his apartment if I work here, right?” I bite my lip.
“Oh no,” Rob says. “Don’t worry about that. We’ve made it clear that he’s not allowed to complain. You’re doing everyone a favor by doing this work.”
It’s not exactly the answer to the question that I want, but it’ll have to do. The thought of LJ’s piercing, cutting stare, especially while I’m trying to work, makes my skin prickle.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get to work.”
AFTER A LONG, GREASY, sweaty afternoon of work, I’m absolutely parched when I stumble back into the house. I didn’t even realize it had gotten so late if I hadn’t seen the time flash on my new smartphone screen and realized that the sky outside had turned a flaming pink and orange. I wander in through the foyer, threading my way to the kitchen, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness of the mansion. “Hello,” I call out tentatively. “Is anybody there?” Presumably, they could be far enough away in the house not to hear me. It really is that cavernous. My stomach growls, and I decide that I’m going to take them up on their offer to raid the fridge in the kitchen. I pull open the cool brushed steel door to reveal an absolute plethora of food: salads, snacks, cheese, fruit, all kinds of fancy bubbly water, and a variety of cold cuts. I’m almost too hungry to think straight, but I slap together a sandwich with whatever I find: ham, cheese, pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, lettuce, and some fancy smoked salt I grabbed from a container. I grab a peach fizzy water and settle at the counter. I’m about to take an embarrassingly large bite when I hear my name.
“Maren?”
It’s Tuck. I blush and go to put the sandwich down, but he urges me on.
“Oh, don’t let me interrupt you.” He grins. “I know a good sandwich when I see one.”
I laugh a little. “That’s a big compliment coming from you.” I take a bite, although slightly smaller than the face stuffing I was going to do before he got here. “Where did you learn to cook, anyway?”
Tuck shrugs, taking a stool across the counter from me. “Just self-taught, really? YouTube, the internet, a couple of good cookbooks. It felt like something useful to learn if I was going to be living on my own.”
“On your own,” I say, swallowing. I crack open my bubbly water and take a swig. It’s delicious—cool but a little bit zingy with flavor.
“Yeah, I’ve kind of been on my own for a while. Before I was living with these guys, I was doing the whole bachelor living thing.” He lets out a short laugh. “Kind of pathetic. This is definitely an upgrade.”
“So, how long have you known these guys?” I ask. I’m desperately curious, but I don’t want to press too hard and scare him off the line of questioning.
Tuck rubs the back of his head. “God, I don’t know. Rob since I was a kid. Lost touch, then reconnected. And then the other two just kinda...” He trails off. “It’s kind of complicated.” He blows out a breath. “I feel like we’re keeping a lot of secrets from you, Maren, and that’s not fair.”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “You’re right. It isn’t. But I guess it’s a need-to-know basis. Or something like if you told me, you’d have to kill me.”
Tuck laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which is unusual for him.
“Something like that,” he says, “but I can tell you this. I’ve known Rob since I was ten, the other guys almost as long, and they’re literally the best guys you could ask to have in your life. Even LJ. I know he comes off rough, but he’d snap a neck for you if it came to that.”
“Probably not for me,” I counter.
Tuck purses his lips. “Don’t be so certain. We’re pretty ride or die that way.”
“I can tell.” I try to steer the conversation into something less involving murdering people for protection. “What have you been up to all day?”
“Oh, just a lot of reading and research, some spare time kind of hobby stuff. I’m a bit of a geek, in case you can’t tell by looking at me.”
I have to restrain myself from bursting out laughing. Tuck might be a bit shy, and he definitely wears glasses, but he’s far from the pencil-neck geek stereotype. A puzzled look slips over his face.
“Sorry,” I say, “I’m not making fun of you. It’s just, I don’t know, you don’t have geek vibes.”
Tuck’s smile softens. “Oh, come on, Maren. You don’t have to flatter my ego. I mean, I guess I’m not bad looking, but I’m not jacked like LJ.”
“So you’re saying you wouldn’t snap a neck for me, if it came to that?” I joke.
Tuck’s face goes steely. “I mean, if I had to,” he says carefully, “I would, Maren. Protecting a woman’s honor is something I take pretty seriously.”
It should sound really corny when he says it, like something out of a medieval fantasy movie. I mean, who talks about protecting a woman’s honor? But something about the way Tuck pronounces the words feels so genuine. So real. And the fact that he’s talking about me...
Warmth blooms in my stomach and spreads all the way to my fingers and toes.
“That’s really sweet of you,” I say, “of all of you. You guys are so generous.”
Tuck smiles again. “You sound surprised.”
“Well...” I drum my fingers on the counter. “I mean, you are criminals.”
“We prefer the word outlaws,” Tuck says, “but yeah, I get it.” He sighs. “The thing is, Maren, there’s crimes and then there’s crimes, and then there’s crimes. I mean, think of it this way: a white-collar criminal can destroy ten thousand people’s retirement funds with one insider trading deal just to line his own pockets. And he gets off with a light sentence, maybe a slap on the wrist. Some guy pulls a gun on a home intruder who’s there to kill his girlfriend, and he’s locked up for life.” He chews his lip. “Justice is complicated, is what I’m saying. And sometimes what’s morally right isn’t square with the law. It’s not fully black and white.”
I stare at what remains of my sandwich.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s just...” I chuckle. “This is so the opposite of how I was brought up.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, absolutely. It was all right and wrong. Black and white. You can’t get something for nothing. Criminals just want to cheat the system. Et cetera, et cetera.”
“Sounds like a bummer way to grow up.”
I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know any different. Daughter of a lawyer, here.” I point at myself. “Daughter of an assistant U.S. attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia, in fact.” I rattle it off like a little memorized speech, which I guess it is. I pinch off a hunk of bread, roll it into a wad between my fingers. When I look up, Tuck is staring at me. He blinks, then unfreezes.
“Sorry,” he says, giving his head a little shake. “Just...you were saying? Your dad?”
“Oh,” I say. “I...I mean, that’s the kind of thing he used to say, is all. So he would have disagreed with you hardcore.”
“Would have.” Tuck swallows. “He passed away,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
“He did,” I say shortly. “So did my mom. It was...sudden. I’m basically an orphan—” I shake my head. “I am an orphan. I don’t have anyone.” I don’t know where that last line comes from, but it croaks coming out of my throat. My mouth feels suddenly dry, and not even another sip of the fizzy water will take it away.
Tuck looks at me, something in his gaze I can’t quite pinpoint.
“Well, that much isn’t true,” he says. “Not anymore.”
He reaches out and covers my grease-stained hand with his own. It’s warm, strong, comforting. I look up and meet his honey-colored eyes; they’re so sweet, so intense. It’s too much. I pull away my hand out of instinct, but I nod and smile because I don’t mean to be rude.
“Thank you,” I say.
Tuck nods back. “I mean it, Maren. You’ve...been through enough, it sounds like.” There’s a brief pause, and he gets up from his stool. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just figured I’d say hi, since the other guys are out, and I didn’t want you thinking I’d left you in charge of the place.” He flashes me a grin. “Enjoy the rest of your sandwich.”
“Thanks,” I say.
As his footsteps recede. I pull out my new smartphone.
After a little Googling, I pull up a criminal record search and punch in Robin Locksley. A loading bar skims across the screen, and it says it’s found 16 results for Virginia.
My heart leaps to my throat, and I scroll frantically, only to be confronted with a credit card order screen.
“Dammit,” I mutter. Even if I had a credit card, I’m not sure I would want to pay $39.95 for this information. Feels like something that should be public. Like those alerts they send out about kidnapped children...
My blood goes cold. I’m over eighteen. I’m not a kid. But that doesn’t mean John couldn’t work some kind of loophole and have me marked down as a runaway. What’s it called when a child is missing? Amber Alert.
I type in “Amber Alert” plus my full name and hit go...
No results.
Nothing that matches me, anyway.
Relief cascades over me. So, there’s no public campaign going on to hunt down the sweet, disabled missing white girl. The public doesn’t even know.
But then the relief dries up as quickly as it came.
That doesn’t mean they’re not looking for me. It just means they want to do it in secret.
I put the smartphone down on the counter, face down, and shove it away for good measure, as if distancing myself from it will keep me safe from whatever scheme John and the sheriff must be cooking up.
Then I remember what Rob said about the tracking on it. Strangely, it makes me feel a little bit better to know that someone actually cares about where I am.
Even if it’s just because I’m a potential paycheck.
I take the phone back and tuck it into my pocket.
You probably want us to know where you are if you’re in trouble, Maren. The quicker, the better.