ALESSIO
Beccs looks absolutely fucking incredible.
The black dress clings to every curve like it was designed specifically to torture me.
A dangerous slit flashes smooth thigh every time she moves.
Her dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, and the new blonde streaks I noticed before are framing her face perfectly.
The makeup is subtle enough to look effortless and lethal enough to stop traffic.
She looks like temptation wrapped in silk and bad decisions. And I'm not the only one who's noticed. McPatrick practically swallowed his tongue when we walked over. That was expected.
What wasn't expected was how quickly I wanted to punch him for it. Or the bartender. Or the asshole near the dance floor. Or the businessman pretending to listen to his friend while sneaking glances in our direction every thirty seconds. Jesus Christ.
It's like every man in the room collectively decided tonight was a good night to annoy me. The blonde at the next table is openly flirting with me. Any other night I would've noticed. Maybe even encouraged it. Tonight? I couldn't care less.
She smiles. I barely register it. Beccs shifts in her chair. My attention immediately snaps back to her. Again. It's becoming a problem. A serious one.
Because no matter how hard I try, my eyes keep finding her. The way she laughs. The way she tucks her hair behind one ear. The way her fingers curl around her glass. The way she unconsciously bites the inside of her cheek when she's thinking.
I've spent months hunting information on federal investigations, rival organizations, and the psychopath calling himself the Collector. Meanwhile, I've also somehow memorized the exact shade of Beccs' eyes.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
A movement near the bar catches my attention. The same guy. Still staring. Still looking at her like she's available. My muscles flex. I've had enough. I start to stand. Beccs grabs my arm. "Stop."
I glance down. "What?"
"Sit."
"No."
"Alessio."
The warning in her voice is familiar. Unfortunately, so is my irritation. "That asshole has been staring at you for twenty minutes."
"And?"
"And?"
I stare at her. She stares back. Calm. Completely calm. Like she doesn't understand she's seconds away from being the reason somebody needs reconstructive surgery.
"You want people to think we're together, right?" she asks.
"Obviously."
"Then act like it."
"I am acting like it."
"No."
Her fingers tighten around my wrist. "You're acting like my bodyguard."
I blink. The distinction had honestly never occurred to me. She points at the empty chair. "Sit down."
Reluctantly, I do. "What I was going to do would've solved the problem."
"It would've started a different one."
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. The contact hits harder than it should. "Lean closer."
I obey. Not because she told me to. Because I want to. Big difference.
"Look at me."
I do. The rest of the room disappears almost instantly. It always does around her. I just haven't wanted to admit it.
"Not at him," she instructs softly. "Not at the blonde. Not at everybody else." Her thumb brushes my knuckles. "At me."
I stare. God help me, that's the easiest instruction she's ever given. Because she is all I see. The music fades. The conversations disappear. The room blurs. There's only Beccs. Those impossible eyes. That mouth. The woman who's managed to crawl under my skin and make herself comfortable.
"Good," she murmurs. "Now kiss me."
For a second, I just stare at her. Not because I don't want to.
Because she's said it so casually. Like she's asking me to pass the salt.
Then again, maybe that's the difference between us.
Beccs sees a solution. I see a threat. Before I can overthink it, I lean forward.
The second my mouth touches hers, the rest of the room disappears. Warm. Soft. Dangerous.
Her fingers tighten around mine. There's only Beccs. Only her. I deepen the kiss slightly, my thumb brushes gently over her cheek, making me marvel at how soft she is. Soft and… mine.
The thought arrives uninvited. Possessive. Primitive. Entirely unwelcome. Unfortunately, it refuses to leave.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are slightly unfocused. A small victory. Because I know mine probably look exactly the same. She clears her throat. Then gestures around us. "Now look."
I glance over my shoulder. The guy at the bar suddenly finds his drink fascinating. The businessman is talking to his friend again. The blonde at the next table is pointedly looking anywhere except our direction.
Interesting.
A slow grin spreads across my face. "It worked."
"Of course it worked."
I look back at her. "And you knew it would."
She rolls her eyes. "Most men aren't looking for a fight, Alessio."
"I wasn't looking for a fight."
Her stare says otherwise.
"Okay," I admit. "Maybe a little."
"A little?"
"He has a very punchable face."
She laughs. The sound hits me somewhere dangerous. The kind of place I usually keep locked up.
"See?" she says. "No broken noses."
I lean closer. "You're taking all the fun out of this."
Her eyes sparkle. "You're welcome."
I study her for a moment. The confidence. The amusement. The way she sits there like she hasn't just completely dismantled my entire strategy.
Then something clicks. "You planned that."
She blinks. "Planned what?"
"The whole thing."
"The relationship lesson?"
I narrow my eyes. She smiles. And suddenly I realize what's happening.
She's teaching me. Teaching me how people in relationships act.
Teaching me how to discourage attention without threats.
Teaching me how to communicate without violence.
Teaching me things nobody has ever bothered teaching me before. The realization is deeply irritating.
I shake my head. "You know, I've never had a relationship before."
"Yeah," she says dryly. "That's pretty obvious."
I scowl. She laughs, and the sound goes straight into my dick. Unfortunately, I like the sound. A lot.
Then an uncomfortable thought occurs to me. "And you?"
Her smile falters. The change is subtle, but there. It rears up not only my jealousy of whoever got that part of her first, but also a sharp pang of hurt on her behalf. "How much experience do you have?"
The question comes out sharper than intended. Possessive. Jealous. Neither emotion sits particularly well with me.
Beccs notices immediately. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Are you jealous?"
"No."
The answer comes too quickly. We both know it, and she laughs. But it fades just as quickly as it started. "More than you, obviously."
Something in her voice changes. A shadow passes behind her eyes. "But not much."
I wait. For some reason, I really want to hear the rest.
"Most guys don't stick around long."
I find that very hard to believe. Anybody lucky enough to catch her attention would be a fool to let her go… I'm not even going to acknowledge where that leaves me and ask instead, "Why?"
She looks down at our joined hands. Only then do I realize I'm still holding hers. I should let go. I don't.
"Because most people want to be somebody's priority." Her voice is quiet now. "My free time goes into finding Rachel."
The name lands between us. Rachel. The sister. The one she's been chasing like a ghost. The one I agreed to search for, and the only reason she’s sitting across from me now. I find myself leaning forward. Interested. I lean back again immediately. No!
This is exactly why fake relationships are a bad idea. She gets comfortable. I get curious. Curiosity becomes attachment. Attachment gets people killed.
I know better.
I've spent years making sure I know better. So why the hell am I still listening? My attention returns to her before I can stop it—actual interest.
Not because I think she's beautiful. Though she is. Not because I want her. Though I definitely do.
Because I want to understand her. And somewhere along the line... that's become far more dangerous.
The realization catches me off guard. "What happened?"
For a moment I think she won't answer. Then she sighs. "One day she was just gone."
I frown. "Gone?"
She nods. "No note. No call. No body. No answers."
Jesus. "How old were you?"
"Twenty."
The pain in her voice is carefully controlled; she sounds like she had many years of experience not allowing it fully through.
"I spent years chasing dead ends." She shrugs. "I finally found out a motorcycle club passed through town the same day Rachel disappeared."
Immediately, my attention sharpens.
"So I moved."
"To Timber Falls?"
Her tongue moves enticingly across her lips.
I don't think she's aware of what that little gesture is doing to me.
"I started working at the garage; my dad taught me how to put motors together and fix things.
" I'd expect to see a smile at the mention of her father, but there is none, only more pain.
There is another story there, I'm sure of it. But I'm not going to dig tonight.
"Then a certain rich asshole broke down on the side of the road."
I grin. "The Shelby was innocent."
"The Shelby tried to kill itself."
"Allegedly."
She rolls her eyes. I find myself smiling wider. "So you moved there because of the MC?"
"Yes, I found out their name and then followed them."
"Which brought you to Vegas."
"Which brought me to Vegas."
A slow smile spreads across her face. "Then I got the catering job where we..."
I raise an eyebrow. "Fucked?"
Her cheeks immediately flush. Victory.
She shakes her head. "You're impossible."
"That's not a no."
"It also got me fired."
My grin disappears. I didn't know that. "What?"
"The catering job." She shrugs. Like it doesn't matter. Like losing a job is nothing. Like she's used to things falling apart. Something about that bothers me. A lot.
"You got fired because of me?"
"Technically."
A dangerous calm settles over me. "Who fired you?"
This time the curve lifting her lips stays, "Alessio."
"What?"
"It's fine."
"It doesn't sound fine."
"It worked out."
I stare at her. She stares back, then groans. "Don't do whatever you're thinking."
"I'm not thinking anything."
"That's a lie."
It absolutely is. The man's face is forming in my mind.
"Water under the bridge," she states firmly.
I continue staring. She sighs. "You're going to make his life difficult, aren't you?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether I can find him."
For one second, she looks horrified. The next she's laughing. And somehow that feels better than winning the argument.
A few months ago, if somebody had told me I'd spend an evening sitting in a nightclub discussing relationship etiquette, missing sisters, and former catering jobs, I'd have assumed they'd suffered a head injury.
Yet here I am. Still holding her hand. Still listening.
Still wanting more. Not more sex. Not more flirting.
More answers. More pieces of her story. I want to know what made her laugh before Rachel disappeared.
What she wanted to be before her life became one endless search.
What keeps her awake at night. What she dreams about.
The curiosity should concern me. Instead, it settles deeper.
Like she's become another puzzle I can't walk away from.
Or maybe that's the lie I've been telling myself from the beginning.
Mostly because she's right.
"Don't look so offended," she says.
"I'm not offended."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm contemplating your execution."
She laughs again. Then slowly rises. "I'll be right back."
I frown. "Where are you going?"
She looks even more amused. "Really?"
"Really."
"I'm going to take a piss. Is that direct enough for you?"
I lean back. "That mouth of yours should be put to better use."
She flips me off and marches towards the restrooms. I'm sure she's not even aware of all the stares she's causing. But I am. Interestingly, instead of anger, something else swells my chest: Mine.
She's mine. Fake relationship my ass. This just got a whole lot more interesting.
Her phone vibrates. Morality has never been one of my stronger qualities. I open it with the passkey I hacked into this morning. There is a text from a guy named Charly. Charly?
Charly:
You better be watching your back with that mafia guy of yours.
I stare at the message. Then read it again.
That mafia guy. More importantly: Who the fuck is Charly?
I resist the urge to answer him, but make a note of his phone number.
He'll get a visit soon. Then my attention is caught by something else.
I grin. The little menace changed my name to: Rich Spoiled Asshole. Now this is a challenge I can't resist.
A few quick taps later, I lock the phone and place it exactly where I found it. By the time Beccs returns, I'm sipping my drink like a model citizen.
She stops beside the table. Looks at me. Looks at her phone. Looks back at me. Her eyes narrow. "You touched my phone."
I smile. "You noticed."
"Alessio."
"Beccs."
"How did you get into my phone?"
"7447418."
Her mouth falls open. "You guessed it?"
"I hacked it."
"That's worse!"
"Significantly."
She snatches the phone. A second later, her eyes widen. Then she slowly lowers it. "No."
I grin. "Oh yes."
She points at the screen. "Handsome Rich Asshole?"
I nod. "That's me, babe."
She closes her eyes. The expression suggests she's considering murder. Personally, I find that encouraging.
"Besides the fact that you broke into my phone, violated my privacy, and tampered with my data..."
"Minor details."
"You also promised to help me find Rachel."
The humor leaves me immediately. Her voice changes when she says her sister's name. I've noticed that. The same way I've noticed far too many things about her. I lean forward. "Yes."
"Send me everything."
She blinks. "What?"
"Everything." I hold her gaze. "Every lead. Every name. Every rumor. Every dead end."
Her smile fades. The room seems quieter suddenly. More serious. "I'll put my best people on it."
For a second, she just stares. Like she doesn't quite believe me. Like nobody has ever offered something that big before. Then she swallows. And for the first time all evening, the teasing disappears from her eyes. "Okay."
The single word lands heavier than it should. Because somehow, I know this isn't about a missing person anymore. It's about trust. And whether either of us knows what the hell to do with it.