Chapter 17 - August
He cracks open one eye and lets out a weary groan.
I take the video call downstairs, out of earshot, setting my phone in Kate’s office cradle. “Got any news?”
Grayson’s got Tom’s burner phone plugged into a computer to extract data. “I’ve got signal traces. Working on decrypting the last outgoing message.”
Katar wipes blood from his blade with the kind of care men reserve for newborns. “He’s a grunt for Blackthorn with a powdered sugar problem.” He removes a baggie of cocaine from his pocket. “Racked up thirty grand in debt and couldn’t pay it. Now he freelances to repay it.”
Blackthorn’s disposable errand boys get buried when they outlive their usefulness or get sloppy enough to attract heat.
My hands crush into fists with the need to rearrange this asshole’s bones. “Was he supposed to scare her? Silence her?”
“Blackthorn’s caught on that your unicorn’s been digging where she shouldn’t and wants her quiet or gone.” He uses our code for Kate to disguise names.
Fuck. The blog articles.
“What are you doing with the body?” I ask.
Katar beams like I’ve handed him another victim. “Staging a drug-fueled double homicide. Dealer shoots druggie in a botched deal. They both die.” He casually scribbles the debt owed onto the corpse’s cheek with his blood.
I part Kate’s curtain with two fingers and scan the street, eyes sweeping over every parked car, memorizing their plates. If anyone’s watching her, they won’t get a second chance.
I let the screen fall closed. “And when Blackthorn’s goons want a status report or the rest of his debt?”
“Unless the narrative is suicide.” Katar crosses to Grayson’s desk and lifts Tom’s personal phone, and types bloody fingerprints with his thumbs, smudging the Spiderman case.
“Dear Mom and Dad, I’ve been living a lie,” he reads his message aloud.
“Tried drugs and got in deep. Did some messed-up things I’m not proud of. I’m sorry. Forgive me, Tom.”
I swear under my breath but can’t deny his sick little fiction might hold.
Katar then collects Tom’s black Android burner phone plugged into another port. “Sending a message to Blackthorn’s contact. Took care of the girl. She won’t squeak a word.”
We’ll be lucky if this works for a week, tops.
“Grayson, extract everything from both phones and wipe them clean,” I tell him. “Timeline, GPS, texts, call logs. Then gut the SIM, shred the shell, and get Katar to toss pieces in three separate rivers.”
My nerdy friend salutes with two fingers. Efficient, reliable, and my anchor in this sea of chaos.
Katar lovingly strokes Tom’s hair like he’s a dying pet.
My mind pivots to Kate and her research and her scent haunting my shirt. She’s not safe. Nowhere near it.
“I want a full lockdown on Unicorn’s digital profile. Blog, work drives, phone, home network. Anything Blackthorn can tap. Next time they won’t send a junkie, they’ll send someone like Katar.”
My enforcer winks. “Flattered.”
Not a compliment.
Grayson nods, already working on it, his fingers fluttering across his keyboard. “And the unicorn?”
Kate is a walking glitter bomb of provocation.
“I’ll tell her to lie low until the dark glitter settles,” I reply, and Grayson cracks a smile.
If it settles at all. Blackthorn doesn’t clear threats, he vaporizes them. This means I have to stay closer. Much closer. Even if it means getting scorched.
We end the call, and I return to my post.
PJ3 hasn’t left her side all night and is starting to wriggle like he’s been holding his bladder for a century.
“Come on. Bathroom break.” I carry the goblin downstairs, his legs bicycling in the air, scolding me that I’ve committed treason for leaving his owner behind without a guard.
The back door opens to a patio with deck furniture, space for a barbecue setup, a spacious yard with neatly trimmed grass, and a half-dead herb garden trying to survive her neglect.
I put the dog down, and he bolts for the far corner, circling and sniffing for a perfect spot. Leaning against the patio column, I bask in the cool night air, and it eases the tension in my gut.
PJ3 takes his sweet time, sniffing five spots, and my mind drifts away.
I picture myself sweating over a barbecue, beer in hand, dropping cooled slices of steak to the pooch at my feet.
A life men like me don’t get. I crush that dream before it expands into a romance novel, and bend down to greet the little demon trotting over to me, tail wagging.
I scratch behind his ears. “Yeah, I’m protecting Momma too.”
He gives me a little woof of approval, and I smile, taking him back upstairs to her, where he curls into her shoulder.
By 10AM she stirs, rolling onto her side, eyes peeling open and blinking. Rays of sunlight come through the window and illuminate half her face.
PJ3 loses his shit, tail swishing, licking her like a tornado of affection.
I slide my helmet back on after a long breather and get off the chair and clear my throat to let her know she’s not alone. “Morning, Glitter Bomb.”
She squints at me. “Either this is a dream, or I died and got a very sexy Grim Reaper. Kiss me and make it count, Grumpy. This is heaven, after all.”
“Your guard dog takes his job seriously.” I nod to my new sidekick. “I’m not chancing losing a finger.”
She strokes PJ3’s coat. “He’s got murder in his blood.”
Her sass is back. Good sign. My shoulders drop half an inch.
“How’s your head?” I press my palm to her forehead. Less clammy.
God, her scent. Fruity and sweet like fucking fairy dust. Every time I breathe it in, it lights a fuse down my spine.
She winces and touches her temple. “Feels like I lost a cage fight with a semi-truck.”
I dab her forehead and cheeks with the wet cloth. “The truck wouldn’t survive the encounter. You’re indestructible. Chuck Norris-level.”
“Immortality.” She punctuates the notes like she’s starring in a tragic musical, but damned if it isn’t captivating.
Something tells me it’s a Celine Dion song, and I have more research to do on that front.
She sits up, catches my wrist, and my chest flutters. “I like you like this. A little bit soft. It suits you.” Her thumb sweeps over my hammering pulse. My throat burns. She’s reading me like one of her questionable book boyfriends.
I change the subject. “You remember anything from last night?”
“Back to business. Okay. Um.” She scratches her eyebrow. “Fragments. Vodka shots, dancing, heat, sweaty bodies. Then everything gets blurry.”
Best to hit her with the truth. “Someone spiked your drink.”
“You saved me again.” She pokes my arm. “I’m starting to think you’re not just morally gray. You might be my type.”
The way she looks at me, like I’m the only man in her life not trying to hurt her, obliterates every objection to stay away. And that’s the real danger.
“Drink this.” I cradle the back of her head and lift the water to her lips. For once, she doesn’t sass me, and drinks like she trusts me. That alone cracks the stone wall surrounding my heart.
“Thank you,” she rasps, clasping her neck. “My throat’s so dry.”
“You hungry?” I gesture to a plate of sliced fruit on her side table.
A slow, teasing smile curls on her cracked, dry lips. I want to kiss it off her face and steal her breath. “My, you’re stacking up the stalker brownie points, sir. If you made me pancakes for breakfast, I may marry you. If you add bacon, I’ll call you Vigilante Daddy.”
Why the fuck does that warm me all over and tighten my stomach at the same time? My fingers twitch with a need to do something stupid like feed her. Be a real hero instead of a monster.
She swats PJ3 away when he makes a grab for a strawberry. “Bad doggy.” Her scolding voice is sleep-rough and fucking adorable.
PJ3 grumbles and flops beside her.
“He walks all over me. This is why you got him training lessons, isn’t it?” She stuffs a raspberry in her mouth.
“No, I got it for you to practice techniques to discourage him from barking and irking your neighbor.” I drop beside her and hold her knee. “It’s how Josh inherited the name PJ3.”
Her eyebrows crush together. “He’s named after a Star Wars droid?”
Fucking hell, how does she always make me smile or laugh with her wit?
“Pipsqueak John the third is named after his Holiness the Pope.” I feed her a grape because I need to feel her gorgeous mouth wrapped over my fingers. “Mostly because he acts like he’s been divinely appointed.”
She snorts and takes her treat, crushing the berry, and I nearly fucking come in my pants. “He’s got that Napoleon complex.”
“Exactly.” I nudge his butt with my elbow. “You’re just one of his disciples.”
She flicks a pineapple slice at me. “Blasphemy!”
Her voice curls around me like smoke, squeezing my ribcage. I should be immune by now. Fuck. What am I here for again? Business? Pleasure? Both. I stuff the pineapple in her mouth and regroup.
Better get to the damn point when the threat’s escalated. Fun and games won’t kill the Romans. It’ll kill the blood flow to my dick.
“Why are you investigating the Pluto Neptune story?” I need to know if it’s for leverage or personal reasons.
She freezes mid-chew. “How do you know about that? Been reading my notes while I was out cold?”
I offer a casual shrug, deliberately flippant. “I know things.”
“Vaguebook.” She goes back to chewing, unbothered or pretending to be. “I guess that explains how you got expensive spying tech.”
Dammit. She’s been burned too many times and won’t give me a thing unless I trade something. Vulnerability for vulnerability.
I sigh and rub my palms together to ease the need to take on Blackthorn all by myself. “The guy who drugged you is connected to Preston Blackthorn.”
Color drains from her face. Appetite gone, she relocates the plate from her lap to the bedside table.
I wrap her hand in mine, chasing away the chill that’s settled into her fingers. “Do you know why he’s targeting you, besides the blog?”
Stubborn and sharp eyes meet mine. “How about you start talking? Information’s a two-way street. What do you want?”