12. Chapter 12
Chapter 12
The Hound
I need to be where she is, and I’ve never felt this way before. Don’t get me wrong, I obsess. I obsess over targets. I obsess over finding people’s darkest secrets. But Cher is different. She’s so fucking different. She’s an intricate puzzle with hidden fuses that might cause her to lash out, run, or blush—and I need more of it.
But first, I have to figure out who touched her.
“What’re you doing?” Henry’s voice drifts over my shoulder in a way that leaves me frowning. “Tracking Banks?”
Who? Oh shit. Right. Jaxton Banks.
I sigh, irritated in the moment with Henry, even though I shouldn’t be. “Yeah, I mean, he’s just the same as any other finance guy in Vegas.”
“That’s a... very blanket statement.”
I don’t move, still focused on the screen and waiting for the list of reservations at the hotel to download. Henry has no idea what I’m doing.
“Do you have any information on the party?”
“Costume party at a private sex club,” I answer him blankly. “I already sent you all the information. It’s nothing fantastic. You can go alone.” I’ll be following your sister.
“No, you’re going,” Henry snaps at me. “I hate dealing with those parties. I’m not going in alone. I also don’t think Lydia would appreciate—”
“Then stay home. That’s what I would do. If she doesn’t want you there, then don’t go.”
“Yeah, but I think it’s the perfect time to take him down. Those parties are usually riddled with drugs. It’s a solid move. We can drop him with an overdose, and it’ll go unnoticed entirely.”
I nod, the idea is pretty ingenious. “No one would probably think twice about it. But still... As often as people probably drop dead from partying here in Vegas, I’m sure there’s still the off chance that it might be looked into.”
“And if that happens, you’ll take care of it.” Henry squeezes my shoulder. “Now get us invited to that party.”
“Got it,” I mutter. I go back to my current task, narrowing the names down of the hotel reservations to male patrons—and then cross searching them on the internet with a program I built. I drum my fingers on the top of the desk. A list of results pop up, and I click the first one.
Sam Erickson, Son of Esteemed Investor Samuel Erickson, Found Dead in his Vegas Hotel Room.
I stare at the picture of a familiar face. Oh shit. Now I have more questions than ever. I scour the article, searching for some sort of cause of death. Did she...?
“Did you kill someone?”
“No.”
Would she lie to me? I mean, she knows what we do for a living. If she killed some asshole in self-defense, that would be understandable. We could help her. I could help her. The thought has me pushing back from the desk, crashing into Henry.
“The fuck?” he grunts, his steely eyes boring into mine suddenly. “What’s up with you? You’re acting like you’re hiding something—like when Luca had Emma in his basement.”
I stand to my feet and shake my head. “No one is hidden in my basement. No worries.” It might be worse than that.
“Where are you going?”
“I was gonna hit the gym,” I lie, eyeing the clock. Cher is already at work. I’ve been watching her location on my phone. Am I ashamed of it? No. I’m keeping her safe—and already failing. That causes me to frown.
“I’ll go with you,” Henry says with a shrug. “Then we can grab dinner. I promised Lydia I’d FaceTime her tonight.”
I fake a painful smile. “Alright, well then... Let’s go.” And then I’m hunting down Cher. I feel uneasy about confronting her—but I have to know what happened. I can cover for her if something happened.
She just has to be honest.
***
Three hours, a lot of sweat, and a fresh shower later, I’m back on the prowl, heading to the godforsaken rooftop bar. Somehow I managed to convince Henry everything was normal, and I’m just out exploring Vegas. However, as I ride the elevator up, I try to piece together the information I discovered while spending an hour running on the treadmill.
It’s clear that Sam Erickson had a sick obsession with drugging women, and his history of bribery to cover complaints, charges, and settlements prove it. I’m truly disappointed he died before I got my virtual hands around his neck. And I mean, did I anonymously send all that information to the press? Absolutely. Is it already being published all over the internet? Yes, yes it is.
But he hurt someone I care about—er, something like that.
The doors slide open, breaking my thoughts, and I roll my shoulders as I step into the desert night air. I haven’t really thought through this night, and the bass of the dance music rattles my chest annoyingly. I spot the bar that Cher stands behind, all that cover-up still on her face. She swapped the leggings for a black skirt with mesh tights beneath it.
My cock loves her all-black attire. It’s edgy, and I want to fucking devour her. I could rein her in, putting an end to all her mischief.
And I won’t budge.
She deserves a man who won’t falter, who will chip away at the stone castle she’s erected around herself. I’ll explode the fucker, and then I’ll be her castle.
If she’ll let me.
I smooth my hands over my black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar to show my chest. I’ve lifted too much not to show it off. I make my way through the crowd of sweaty bodies, reeking of alcohol and heavy cologne or perfume.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Cher shoots me a glare that might be her most lethal one yet.
I smile at her, trying to be appealing—hell, I spent a full ten fucking minutes on my hair. “Your shift is over in an hour.”
She opens her mouth to protest, I’m sure, but her blue-haired, drug-dealing friend beats her to me. “Who is this tall, ginger drink of water?”
Cher is stone cold. “My brother’s friend.”
“Wow—”
“You can have him,” Cher cuts her off and flips her towel over her shoulder. “In fact, please take him.”
Ouch.
“Damn,” the woman laughs, shaking her head as she looks back to me. “You’re not my type.”
“I get that a lot,” I huff, drumming my knuckles on the counter.
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “It’s only because I swing the other way. I’m sure plenty of my straight—and even not so straight—friends would love you.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I eye Cher, leaning over on the bar as she speaks with a dark-headed, clearly wealthy patron. He’s grinning drunkenly at her, pointing to her chest.
And I start to think this was a mistake.
“Whatever you want, it’s on the house,” Cher’s friend says. “Those big puppy-dog eyes are killing me right now. I hate seeing honest rejection. Cher’s a tough case.”
“Yeah, she is.” I rip my eyes from Cher’s figure, spotting one of her bruises peeking out of the top of her skirt. “I’ll have a Kentucky Sunrise.”
“Interesting choice,” Her friend snorts. “But okay. Coming right up.”
I don’t even know my plan anymore and I mull it over as I wait for my drink. I was hoping Cher would not hate me enough to at least talk—maybe let me walk her home so we could talk about what happened with Sam Erickson.
“Cher’s staring at you,” a voice cuts in. “And I’m Sarah, by the way.”
I jerk my eyes from my hands, meeting a smirk and my drink. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, she is.” Sarah laughs, and then slips away, taking care of other customers. I glance over to Cher, sure enough, meeting those troubled ocean eyes. She immediately looks away and I smile to myself as I down my drink.
And a second.
And a third.
Make it four.
My head is buzzing by the time Cher has only fifteen minutes left, and I’ve spent the entire time at the bar, drinking and watching as the most fucking beautiful woman in world ignores me.
“Cut me off,” I tell Sarah as I hand her my card. She takes it with an unenthused shrug, and I eye my watch once more. As I the secondhand ticks by, a hand slides down my arm. I glance up, meeting an unfamiliar pair of deep brown eyes.
“You look miserable,” she says with a soft smile. “You’ve done nothing but sit at the bar for the last hour downing drinks like water.”
I laugh. “Well, we are in the desert.”
She raises a dark brow, peeking out from beneath her platinum blonde hair. In a loose fitting shimmery black dress, she offers a hand. “Dance?”
“I don’t really dance,” I mutter, and then look past the woman to see Cher, paying absolutely no attention to me. Raw rejection rips at my chest, and while I’m not the kind of guy to try and make someone jealous, I toy with the idea of getting up and dancing. Would she notice? Would she even care?
No, probably not. And that answer keeps me against the bar. Alcohol really is a depressant—and I don’t need any help with feeling depressed.
“We can just hang out then,” the woman offers a sweet smile, leaning against the bar with me. “I suck at dancing anyway.”
“That’s—”
“Not happening,” a sharp voice cuts in the conversation. “He has to walk me home and stay at my home.” Cher’s voice is ice cold, and I nearly laugh at how pissed she looks in the moment.
“Oh... Okay.” The blonde backs away, giving me a sympathetic look as she does. “Sorry. I didn’t know he was here with you.”
“Me either,” I say under my breath as Cher grabs my arm and rips me from the bar and toward the exit. I pull my arm from her, not liking this dynamic one bit. “What the hell are you doing?”
Cher offers nothing, tugging me into the elevator. I hate that I like the way it feels. As soon as we’re safely inside with the doors closed, she drops my hand and shoves me backward.
I burst into a fit of laughter, the booze hitting me all at once. “You’re a little feisty kitten, aren’t you?”
Cher glares at me, folding her arms across her chest as I slump against the wall. “Why the hell did you show up to my work? Do you know how important this job is for me?”
“Uh, making drinks is a big deal, but...”
“You’re drunk ,” she groans, running her fingers through her hair.
“Happens in Vegas a lot, I think,” I reason. “Kind of like Sam Erickson mysteriously dying in his hotel room.”
She freezes, her eyes widening. “What did you just say?”
I bop her on the nose with my finger, taking a step to linger above her. “I know you did something, and I need to know what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she reasons, shaking her head.
I tilt my head, sober enough to see through the shitty lie all over her face. “So, then how did he end up dead right after you left the hotel?”
“I don’t know,” she answers immediately. “He tried to drug me.”
“Yeah, that seems to be his MO. I don’t know why women always go—”
“I didn’t go for him,” Cher explodes, her voice shrill as the doors open, and we’re left with an audience of about eight people waiting to climb on—and giving us a weird look.
“You left with him,” I reason, rolling my eyes and stepping out into the lobby. “You wanted to go home with him.”
“How do you even know that?” she calls from behind me as I push the doors of the lobby open so hard they rattle. “You don’t know that.”
“You’re being very repetitive right now,” I scoff, curling my lip in disgust at the heat still penetrating the night. It’s the only thing getting to penetrate something. I start toward her apartment.
“Jude.” Cher grabs my arm, and I spin, losing my balance and crashing into her. She catches her breath, and I catch myself, shaking my head at my shitty decision making. I’m supposed to be clever and manipulative—out to protect and interrogate the girl.
I got drunk instead, all because my feelings were hurt.
I laugh, running my hands over my face. “You know what, I’ve already changed the footage for you, so whatever happened— if something happened, it’s taken care of. No worries. The asshole deserved it, anyway.” I step away from her, readjusting my game plan. I’m not going back to the apartment. “Good night, Cher.”