Chapter Two
Caymen
“My friends!”
Zayn leaned against the hood of a black sports car with a strip of burnt orange that moved around the side and wrapped the door.
It was a sleek car.
Then again, so were all of Zayn’s cars. And boats, yachts, private jets.
“Holy shit, man,” Eddie said at my side, his voice whisper-excited like a kid on Christmas morning. “That’s a Bugatti Chiron.” Then, sensing that didn’t mean as much to me as it did to him, a car guy, he added, “That’s a four-million-dollar car.”
Of course it was.
When it came to extravagant wealth, this club was attached to a lot of it.
There was Teddy’s old-money, understated, but undeniable affluence.
Then there was Zayn’s new-money—flashy, in-your-face, and over-the-top.
There was a crunch to my side, making my brother jerk as Zayn’s bodyguard, Daniyal, moved out from the side of the clubhouse.
“Jesus. Put a bell on him or something. Man moves like a ninja,” Dixon said, shaking his head.
“What were you creeping around for?” Huck asked, moving from the other side of the clubhouse, likely coming from his house when he saw Daniyal in the yard at that hour.
“Well, see, my good friend,” Zayn said, pushing off his hood.
I got the feeling that everyone was Zayn’s ‘good friend.’ Until they weren’t.
Until he had a reason to turn on you. Then I suspected that a man who was outwardly that friendly in such a cutthroat business was damn near demonic with his own form of justice.
“I have reason to believe that the deal we are waiting on is about to go sideways.”
That got Huck’s attention.
He took a step closer.
Then another.
“Why? Wasn’t this your broker we brought in for this?”
I’d been there for the original meeting. Huck hadn’t been keen on the idea of using a middle man for such a big drop of weapons. But the guys who’d managed to get them into the country—amateurs, it sounded like—had been adamant that they didn’t want to have direct contact with us or Zayn.
So Zayn had offered to bring in a ‘broker’—whatever the hell that was—to be the go-between.
“It’s not the broker. I got word through my networks that the guys are going to renege.”
“The fuck? Why? Got a better offer?”
“I have no idea. And I haven’t been able to get in touch with my broker.”
“Well, it is almost two in the morning,” Dixon reasoned.
“She always answers. Always.” It was the most serious I’d ever heard Zayn be. Though, to be fair, business with Zayn typically lasted all of five minutes and the rest of the time was some outlandish party or another.
“Okay,” Huck said, picking up on his tone. “You two sober?”
“Yeah, no partying tonight,” I said.
Losing Kylo and Coast to relationships meant it was a little tamer around here a lot of the time, with only me, my brother, York, and Velle around. Velle’s ass was always suggesting chill nights, much to my brother’s disappointment. Me, well, I could go either way.
“Anyone else up?”
“No, they crashed an hour back,” I said.
“Alright. Dixon, go to the broker’s house. I’m assuming you know the location?” he asked Zayn.
“I do.”
“Caymen, go to the warehouse where the guns are stored. If shit looks sideways at either place, call. I’m gonna round up some of the others and head over too. But you two get a head start.”
I would normally argue that I wanted my brother and me to go together. But since joining the club, I could sense a bit of resentment from Dixon about how I was always trying to protect him still.
I couldn’t help that shit. It was in my blood. But I understood that he felt like it didn’t look good to the others. So I’d been trying to back off a bit.
If this broker woman was not answering, I would bet good money on her either being dead already… or simply not home. Dixon wouldn’t need my backup there.
“Grab my keys and a gun,” I called to Dixon as he moved in the clubhouse to get his own.
“I know you don’t like being separated—”
“Pretty sure the warehouse is where the action would be, if there is any. Maybe this chick got lucky and didn’t want to answer her phone mid-fuck,” I said, shrugging.
“Maybe,” Huck agreed. “But Zayn isn’t usually someone to overreact. So we’re gonna be smart and thorough here.”
“Got it,” I agreed as Dixon came out and handed me my gun and keys. “We’ll call if we see anything,” I assured him.
We got our addresses from Zayn, then took off.
Both locations were in Miami, so for most of the drive, we went side by side, only breaking off when Dixon’s turn was a few blocks away from my own. Close enough for me to maybe even be able to hear the gunshots if something popped off.
The row of warehouses I was sent to was set back from the road, situated sideways so you had no way to view anything but a solid wall unless you went into the parking lot itself.
There was no way to do that on a bike and not be obvious about it, so I drove half a block down, parked, and climbed off.
It wasn’t until I was rounding the side of the building that I noticed the police cruiser sitting just outside the unit I was pretty sure Zayn had sent me to check out.
Great.
Was there a body in there?
Was it the broker’s?
Maybe more importantly, were the guns in there?
Sure, Huck had some palms greased in both Golden Glades and Miami, but there was no way we could convince anyone to leave a score that big. That was some career-making shit.
I reached for my phone, dialing Huck as I moved behind one of those giant public utility boxes to stay mostly out of view.
“Don’t tell me shit went sideways that fast.”
“Pulled up to the warehouse. A cop is here. Warehouse door is open.”
“Fuck. Fuck ,” Huck snapped.
“Just one cop so far. Figure if something big was discovered, I’d be hearing sirens and seeing a wave of red and blue. Just the one car here.”
“B eyes that seemed smart and observant, the kind that lingered for a second longer than you expected, as if cataloging everything she saw and shuffling it away for future use.
Her loose waves—dark, but threaded with warmer tones that caught the overhead light as she moved—were pulled back into a ponytail.
And fuck if I didn’t imagine wrapping my hand around it and giving just the right amount of a tug, the kind that made a woman’s eyes go small, lips part, and a tiny little gasp escape.
I shook that off.
This was not the time for thoughts like that. Not when the only person who’d actually seen our shipment was getting hauled out by the cops.
Her shoulders were pulled back at an awkward angle, and I didn’t need to see to know she was cuffed behind her back.
“Caymen?”
“Problem,” I said as the cop’s meaty hand grabbed the woman’s arm and led her to the backseat.
“What?”
“Our broker is getting arrested.”
“Fuck.”
The broker climbed into the truck, and the cop slammed the door before making his way back toward the warehouse.
“Is there anyone else there?”
“Not that I can see so far. Cop doesn’t have backup either, so I’m not thinking anyone else is in the warehouse.”
“Goddamnit. This is why I told Zayn we didn’t want to go this route.”
“Hold up,” I said.
Because the broker had leaned her head out of the half-opened back window, craning her head back and forth, likely looking for the cop. Not seeing him anywhere, she decided to take her chances.
She must have been kneeling on the armrest because her whole head moved out of the window, then one shoulder, and the other.
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“I think she’s getting out of the cruiser.”
I winced, watching as she wedged her upper body out.
Her arms were still cuffed behind her. If she lost her balance, she was going to fall headfirst onto the pavement. No, she wasn’t high, but full force like that could easily crack her head open. Maybe not fatally, but bad enough.
My breath stalled in my lungs as I watched the broker use one shoulder for leverage as she brought out a leg, her body contorting to make room.
“No fucking way,” I said as the second leg moved out of the window.
For one heart-fluttering second, her entire fucking body teetered on her holding onto the window itself with her damn elbow.
Then, making my stomach drop, she swung down, landed on her feet like a damn cat, and booked it.
“Um, I gotta go see a girl about a ride.”
“She got away?”
I hung up on Huck’s question as the woman ran around the side of the warehouse.
She probably wouldn’t get far before the cop noticed she was gone. Then half of Miami’s police force would be looking for her. The faster I could get her on my bike and outta there, the better.
I ran to my bike, turned it over, and followed the shadow running away from the warehouse.
Her head whipped over, eyes wide.
“Get on!” I yelled over the engine.
She glanced back toward the warehouse, then at me.
Decision made, she folded forward, her hands near her knees, then she—I shit you not—stepped over them, bringing her cuffed hands to the front. What kind of contortionist shit was that?
“Here,” I said, shoving my helmet down on her head and securing it.
She was quick to climb on behind me, then demanded, voice near my ear, “Put your arms up!”
Willing to play along, I raised them, only to feel her arms move around them, her cuffs caging her to me, but allowing her to hold on.
I didn’t hesitate.
I took off like a shot.
She curled into me, and I could feel her fucking with the hem of my shirt until her hands (and cuffs) were under it, hiding them from view, and pressing them against my stomach.
Which was distracting as fuck.
But I forced my mind to focus on the road as we drove into a busier area.
I wove in and out of traffic for a few minutes. Until I heard the inevitable sirens in the distance, the cop likely calling for backup.
I slowed then, staying with the flow of traffic.
Her cuffs were hidden.
So was her face.
There was no reason for them to suspect we were anything other than a couple out for a car ride.
Did I have a helmet on? No. But they had bigger fish to fry.
That said, getting her somewhere not visible was probably a good idea, in case the cop who’d cuffed her got suspicious about the all-black outfit and body that fit the description.
Miami was in no short supply of places to go, not even so late at night.
That said, those places would be full of people with cameras. And with any luck, she’d managed to keep her face off of them so far. They could be chasing a ghost.
So I took a turn I’d only made a couple times before.
Heading down a side street of stores and take-out restaurants to park further down in case the cops had seen my bike and came looking.
I cut the engine, put down the kickstand, and waited for the woman’s hands to slide from under my shirt.
But I didn’t raise my arms.
Because the broker kept her arms around me as she folded one wrist inward to pull at the bracelet on her other one. Then I watched, entirely too fucking fascinated, as she slid some sort of plastic cover back to reveal a small plastic nub.
I knew exactly what it was before she even shoved it into the lock.
She had a makeshift handcuff key hidden on an unassuming rope-like bracelet.
And it was a lot hotter than it had any right to be to watch the cuffs give, then see her free herself from them before moving back.
She moved first, but I was quick to get to my feet, wanting to make sure she didn’t try to get away.
“Tell me you have a place around here,” she said as she pulled off the helmet and hung it from my handlebar.
“I do.”
I didn’t.
But I knew someone who did.
Which I figured was the same thing.
“Let’s go then. I didn’t take a ride from a stranger to get my ass arrested standing on the street.”
Her voice was smooth and confident. And just a little bit chilly.
That was pretty hot too.
“Right. Down this way,” I said, nodding toward the Indian restaurant as I hoped Arty was home, but knowing I had a spare key on my ring if I needed it.
Apparently, the club old ladies each had a key because they dropped in to clean on occasion. Huck decided to snag a copy and give them to everyone in case the guy ever got himself into trouble and we needed to get into his place to try to help.
“Here?” she asked when I reached for the knob, but found it locked.
I lifted the key, unlocked the door, and pushed it in.
I expected the smell.
I’d only been to Arty’s place twice, but each time it had not only the good lingering scent of the Indian restaurant right by it, but the not-so-great smells coming from overflowing trash bins, festering coffee cups, and unwashed laundry piles.
The broker moved in behind me, her face twisted up in disgust.
“Wow. You’re disgusting.”
And damn if some part of me didn’t fall for her right then and there.